


The Book of Stone

by Bracketyjack



Series: New Hope [3]
Category: PIERCE Tamora - Works, Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-16
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-08-24 14:57:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 231,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16642415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bracketyjack/pseuds/Bracketyjack
Summary: Joren's dead, Genlith's treachery has been exposed, Burchard's abdicated, and Taren of Stone Mountain inherits an unholy mess leaving him on the wrong side of everyone and everything. Time for some New Hope. A further sequel to Lady Knight Volant.





	1. Prologue -- A Private Education

**Author's Note:**

> As a sequel to Lady Knight Volant, my AU continuation of Lady Knight, this tale will make precious little sense without it. I know LKV is absurdly long, but don’t say you weren’t warned.  
> The Book of Stone is not, however, a sequel to The Temple of Sakuyo, though it intersects with it in time and other ways. The ‘Prologue’ occurs during Page, the first chapters overlap with the last chapter of LKV and most of Temple, and the tale proper sits between the last chapter and ‘Epilogue’ ofTemple, explaining (among other things) Kel’s “little Gallan adventure and its aftermath” ; the epilogue falls after the end of Temple.  
> It is confessedly an experiment, in an OC p-o-v that tries to look at Kel and New Hope from outside, meaning (be warned!) a long slow burn, with a deal of rehash, before it goes bang. It’s also an exorcism of sorts, Joren’s siblings having mildly haunted me since I thought about them in passing for LKV, and having made them suffering children, in Kel’s world, they needed to be rescued.  
> And then there was the Craftsbeings’ Guild, with the inevitable opposition it would face offering another opportunity to take Kel’s glaive to Tortallan patriarchy and gender conservatism, or plain bigotry, though as it turned out only as an addendum to the core of the story. But those things together also seemed to imply a different sort of novel, inevitably more episodic than LKV or Temple because animated by daily life and occasional emergencies, yet not therefore shapeless, being a bildungsroman, and with a little care able to develop a story arc of its own. And I like challenges in form.  
> A few points about canon. Making Taren, Saman, and Varia Joren’s half-siblings is arguably AU to canon : in Squire, the woman with Lord Burchard and his brother, when they burst into Kel’s room after Joren’s death, is referred to as Joren’s mother — but Kel had never met the Stone Mountains, so I’ve made it a natural error on her part. I saw no point in making the younger Stone Mountains echoes of Joren, so I wanted them unlike him, while having him raised overwhelmingly by his father seems implicit in canon. I do need to retcon myself slightly, though, in that in LKV, ch. 31, Jonathan says the heir of Stone Mountain is ‘just of age’, which in Tortall seems to mean 21 — but 18 is the usual age for Ordeals of Knighthood, and it turns out that was what he meant : so while Taren was deemed old enough to inherit, he is in some respects not of age.  
> I have also concluded, after some head-scratching, that when Lady Knight tells us the Pakkai flowed along the east wall of Castle Rathhausak, it should say south wall ; ‘east’ just does not compute, and with the best will in the world geography and topography are not that excellent book’s strongest suits.  
> Finally, The Book of Stone was very largely written before A Spy’s Guide to Tortall came out — which while often fun is not a work I take as headcanon, and I have ignored its information about (and depiction of) immortals. Compare, for example, its illustration of an ogre with whatever image you were left with after Wolf Speaker — I did, and voted with my own imagination ; and again in the matter of dragons, or I should be in trouble with Lord Jadewing.  
> Enjoy!  
> B’Jack, November 2018

**Prologue : A Private Education**

_Stone Mountain, August 454 HE_

 

TAREN wasn’t fast enough to stop the manicured hand that slapped his sister’s face, bloodying her nose and knocking her down, too shocked to cry, but he was crouched over her, belt knife drawn, in time to stop his half-brother’s boot from following up. The momentarily calculating look in Joren’s eyes as he decided his irritation wasn’t worth the risk to his golden skin was familiar, but the bitter twist that distorted his handsome face and the mirthless, scornful laugh were new.

“Gods, Taren, you’re as bad as _she_ is, puling over the weak.” His voice went falsetto, crudely mimicking Varia’s. “Ooh, what’s _she_ like? What do you think, you idiot?” Volume rose. “A degenerate merchant whore pretends to knighthood and you want a character sketch? Gods save us from women, not that they will.”

Taren held his belt knife tighter. “She’s six, Joren. It was only curiosity. And that’s your own blood you’ve spilt.”

“Hardly. None of you got the true blood, just the swarthy muck from your mother’s useless family. Father should never have remarried.” It was an old insult. “And count yourself lucky I’ve better things to do than take that knife away from you and teach you both some respect.”

The door slammed behind him, and Taren sheathed his knife and busied himself for a moment staunching Varia’s nose and holding her as delayed shock brought tears — but, he noted sadly, very quiet and stifled tears, as his own always were, wary of attracting any adult’s attention. Complaining of Joren’s behaviour was not an option, as they both knew all too well. The door opened again and his hand went to his knife-hilt but it was only Saman, who took one look, slipped in closing the door softly, and came to join him in comforting Varia. When she’d quieted and the nosebleed had stopped, Taren eased her to arm’s length, thinking hard. His sister was unceasingly curious about many things, including any number of subjects their father, uncle, and half-brother would think wholly unsuitable for a girl — she sat in on his and Sam’s lessons whenever she could, and already loved mathematics — but for her to risk asking Joren a question indicated a burning desire to know.

“What who’s like, Var? Page Keladry?”

She nodded slightly, careful of her nose. “I thought he’d just rant. He’s always cursing her because she’s a girl, and says everyone hates her but she takes no notice.”

“And you wondered how she can do that?”

“Un-huh. We can’t go anywhere else, but she doesn’t have to be there.”

“Huh.” Saman looked thoughtful. “That’s true, Var. I hadn’t thought of it like that. If he’s hit her half as often as he says, she must be tough.” He frowned. “He’s two years older than her, but maybe she hits him back.”

Taren gave his younger brother a conspirator’s grin. “She does, Sam. I heard Uncle complaining that he should have driven her home by now, and what _was_ he about to be held off by a trollop of a girl. _He_ said she’d been trained as a … a whelp, I think he said, by the barbarians, the Yamanis, I suppose, and _liked_ fighting.” A thought suddenly flickered. “And I heard something yesterday that made no sense, about a page killing a bandit on the eastern border somewhere, and saving others in the group that was attacked. I wonder if that was Page Keladry? It would explain why _he_ and Father and Uncle are so angry today.”

Varia stirred in his lap. “She _killed_ someone, Taren?”

He looked down at her, seeing the widened eyes, half-wondering at her resilience, half-enraged at her need for it. “I don’t know so, Var, but I think so. And if we do the usual with any judgement of _his_ , then she must be a very _good_ page, and a good person, too.” He tried to grin but could feel it turn lopsided. “Maybe like Captain Horgan must have been as a boy, if he’d been a girl and of rank to be allowed knight training.”

He was rewarded with a half-smile for their father’s Captain of the Guard, who said very little but never minded when they used his soldiers as a protection from Joren or hid in the guard-room from Uncle Henchard’s tempers. Captain Horgan also looked at Joren and Uncle Henchard with what Taren thought was hidden disapproval, and had stood up for his and Saman’s weapons training though neither was thought worthy of becoming a Stone Mountain knight. He was a patient teacher, too.

“I can’t imagine Captain Horgan as a girl. But that’s interesting.” Varia’s half-smile faded into a frown, making her look as prematurely adult as she was too early made wise in the ways of male violence. Or at least, Stone Mountain male violence. Taren was suddenly unsure, wondering how wide a gap there might be between what was for all of them the daily norm and the rest of Tortall. “You mean you think Page Keladry’s fair?”

“Yes, I do. And I think she … I don’t know, protects other pages, too.” Another overheard conversation between his brother and Uncle connected. “All those fights — I don’t think it’s just him trying to bully her, it’s because she stops him whenever she sees him bullying. That beat-up-the-first-years thing to toughen them that he and Uncle go on about.”

“Huh.” Varia leant against him. “I wish she was here, then. Or he wasn’t.”

“Me too, Var.” Saman patted her shoulder. “But at least now he’s a squire he won’t be here as often.”

Taren nodded. It was the best they could hope for. But squires became knights, and Varia would still only be ten when _Sir_ Joren came back permanently, too young to escape Stone Mountain through marriage. He forced himself to smile.

“True, Sam. But let’s all try to keep very quiet for the next few days, until he’s gone to Nond, eh? And we’d better get you to the healer, Var, or that bruise will have mother hysterical.”

Varia nodded, touching her cheek gently and wincing. She knew as well as he what would happen then, and rose obediently to follow him as Saman eased the door open, looking out cautiously.

“All clear.”

Healer Rumil sighed when he saw Varia’s face, and asked no questions as he did what he could to lessen the swelling and reduce the bruise. But he couldn’t fix anything else, and Taren stored away his rage ; it was useful against the despair. And, he reminded himself, holding his sister’s hand as she endured the pain that was Joren’s only gift to any of his half-siblings, you never knew : squires did become knights, true, but both squires and knights sometimes died. It wasn’t a thing to say out loud, even to Sam and Var, but he could hope, and pray. Meantime, there was getting Var’s dress, stained from her nosebleed, to the laundresses before their mother saw it.


	2. Chapter One -- Breaking with the Past

**One : Breaking with the Past**

_Stone Mountain, August–November 463 HE_

 

THE ceremony was interminable, the lines of people swearing their liege oaths seemingly endless, and the great hall uncomfortably hot despite its size and cheerless stone walls. _That_ at least would change, as soon as maybe. Flies buzzed lazily in the thick air, the smell of sweat becoming steadily more pungent, and Taren found himself admiring the unbending, immobile alertness of His Grace of Wellam, observing for His Majesty — which was ironic, as His Grace more than half-terrified him. But he also took strength from the old man’s presence and delegated royal authority, and knew he would need every bit of them. His uncle’s open impatience as junior staff took their turns was another stimulus, and he found it wasn’t so hard to block out the muttered sighs of arrogant boredom and give each person swearing loyalty on their lives the attention he knew they deserved. And at last it drew to a close, with the cooks and gardeners, and taking a deep breath he stood before his uncle could do so, feeling a tremor in his legs but also the familiar, burning rage in his gut.

“Pronouncements already, lad?”

And so it started. Taren took a breath, centring himself, and glanced at Captain Horgan, who nodded fractionally and slipped out. “Whom do you address, Uncle Henchard?”

“Oh ho. Expecting my lording, are you? You’ll have to earn that from _me_.”

In an odd way the familiar contempt settled him, reminding him of exactly why he had to assert himself now, and draw a line that was hard and fast. He had never been able to boom in the way his uncle did, nor did he have his father’s detached, icy coldness of voice to silence dissent, but he did now have, at long last, an absolute weapon ; and he would by all the gods use it.

“Wrong again, Uncle, in law, as His Grace will confirm, and in practice. And your open disrespect, even with your oath barely past your lips, is not acceptable.” He could see the surprised looks, hear the indrawn breaths around the hall, but also saw the Lord Magistrate’s fractional nod of satisfaction and drew strength from it to cut across his uncle’s angry expostulation. “I would have made this private, Uncle, but you force my hand, so listen well. That you expect to rule me as you half-ruled my father is plain, but I tell you now, you will _never_ do so.” The anxiety on his mother’s and aunt’s worn faces was an anguish, but their perpetual, beaten meekness punctuated by hysterics had won them _nothing_. “And yes, I have some pronouncements, Uncle, which apply to you as to everyone save my mother, brother, and sister.”

He didn’t give his uncle any chance to gather himself or reply.

“The first is that no-one save those I have named will ever again mention my dead half-brother in my hearing, on penalty of immediate dismissal.”

“What! You—”

Rage flared. “Be silent!” And for a miracle his uncle was, staring his shock. Taren took a deep breath, banking the rage again. “As all know, whatever it was the elemental of the Chamber of the Ordeal said to my father, of my half-brother and his death, was to him revelation enough to break his pride and send him into this premature retirement he has chosen. Such is his right, as is his silence on the matter, however … frustrating.” And utterly irresponsible as well as loveless, but that was only to be expected. “But you, Uncle, you have ever since abused the elemental, prating of its supposed corruption and weeping drunkenly into your cups for my dead half-brother’s marvellous promise.” Another breath, and he gestured his living brother and sister to his side, settling his hands on their shoulders. “What neither you nor my father seem to have asked yourselves, even once, is what kind of revelation about Joren _anything_ could be to me? Or to Lord Saman or Lady Varia? That he was as cruel as the day is long? A bully so full of hate and pride there was no room for anything else?”

White shock and the familiar red rage warred in his uncle’s face.

“What do you mean?”

“If you truly do not know, Uncle, you are the only one here. My mother knows. Your wife knows. The gods know Saman, Varia, and I know. And the servants know. How could they not? Between you, you and my father spoiled Joren utterly. And I thank the gods he did not survive the Ordeal he failed, for had he done so, returning here in bitterness, he would truly have been unendurable.”

Taren stopped himself before the real venom, accumulated over years, could spew from his lips, and took a breath. His mother needed his protection and kindness also, and his hands tightened again on his siblings’ shoulders. His fellow survivors. Across the room Captain Horgan slipped back in, giving him a second fractional nod, and he braced himself to do what had to be done.

“So. His name is never again to be spoken by any here to me, nor to Lord Saman nor Lady Varia, by my order this day.” It was so odd to speak the formula in his own right. “But other matters cannot be so soon consigned to silence. And though my father declined to explain to me or to anyone his decision to resign in bitterness of heart the lordship of Stone Mountain, he did have one piece of advice for me, which may come as a surprise to you, Uncle, as it surely did to me. He told me to heed closely Lady Knight Keladry, now Countess of New Hope, because the gods walk with her as they never have with him.”

The war of white and red in his uncle’s cheeks flared as he spat. “As if we needed more proof Burchard’s lost his wits. You listen to me—”

“No. I am _done_ with listening to you. We all are. And my father has not lost his wits. He’s lost his heart, in so far as he ever had one. It is you who lack wits, Uncle, for even with the triumph at New Hope, owed to its Countess, you refuse to see that you were _wrong_ about her — you, and Joren, and the whole conservative crowd you ran with, who moaned that women were ruining Tortall and had no place outside your beds. Well, now the woman you all came to hate most, even more than the Lioness, has saved Tortall, and most of your drinking and cursing pals died as self-proclaimed traitors, attacking New Hope. And _still_ you will not open your eyes.”

Taren took another breath as his uncle goggled, letting his hands drop and feeling the tension in the hall coil still tighter as he broached the subject that was on everyone’s mind.

“I grant my father this, and this alone — that he truly did not know what Stone Mountain’s iron and crafts were making, nor for whom. He swore it by gods’ oath before His Majesty and His Grace of Wellam, and the chimes sounded for true witness, as His Grace affirms. How would he have known, in any case, with the fief’s daily business so shamelessly remitted to the late lord of Genlith? Yet another cursed traitor.” Despite Taren’s efforts bitterness tinged his voice, and he swallowed to settle it. “Three days ago, Captain Horgan, in my presence and that of His Grace, also swore a gods’ oath, and again the chimes sounded, so he too is known innocent of treason.”

Heads swivelled to Horgan, whose face was utterly still.

“But you, Uncle, have sworn no god’s oath that you were innocent of the treason that possessed Genlith, Runnerspring, Groten, and so many others. And even supposing I were to set all else aside — which I do not, and will not — I cannot afford the doubt that very many feel, noble and common, here and elsewhere. Nor can the fief at large. Captain, if you would.”

Horgan saluted before turning to gesture to the hand-picked guards on the doors, who threw them wide to admit a squad of the maroon-clad Army troops who had accompanied His Grace, escorting eleven men and a woman, their faces stunned and scared. His uncle’s head snapped round, white at last triumphing in his cheeks.

“What is the meaning of this?”

Taren waited until the twelve under guard were arrayed before him, and gestured Saman and Varia to stand aside again.

“It’s very simple, Uncle. Besides your mistress, openly kept these last years in despite of my Aunt’s honour and feelings, these are all men you have appointed here during your periods of regency. And I require from them all, as from you, gods’ oaths that you are innocent of the late treason.” He drew the paper from his pocket. “As the matter is complex, I have taken advice from His Grace in the wording of the oath. Any of you, for example, might have known of a special commission for fine metalwork, or of unusual shipping arrangements in the Drell trade, and yet never imagined for whom the weapons and food were intended. So what you must each declare is that you had no certain knowledge of any treason intended to harm the House of Conté or to help the late King Maggur Reidarsson of Scanra ; and further, that you had no certain knowledge of Stone Mountain’s role in building the necromantic creations known as killing devices, and the giant trebuchet used by Scanran forces in the siege of New Hope.” One more deep breath. “Any refusal to swear your innocence by gods’ oath will be taken as evidence that you dare not do so, and so an admission of guilt.” He looked at their faces, and made a decision. “And as they are all your people, Uncle, and rank, as you so often insist, has proper privileges, it falls to you to take the lead. Your oath, or your refusal to swear it. Now.”

He held out the paper, with the necessary wording.

“Captain Horgan, perhaps you would be kind enough to hold this where my uncle can see it clearly.”

“My lord.”

Horgan added a bow, underlining his acceptance of new authority, and Taren inclined his head in thanks. He watched his uncle read the oath, and when he looked up met his gaze, seeing fright beginning to lace the familiar anger and blustering contempt for so many people and so much that was worthwhile ; seeing also the fuddled calculation. Everyone _knew_ that to swear a gods’ oath falsely was to die, horribly, but who had actually seen what happened? Were the stories true? And was there any leeway in a muttered negative or fingers crossed behind the back? He glanced at the stricken face of his aunt beside his white-faced mother, and made another decision.

“Your Grace?”

The old man’s look was shrewd, his lips pursed as he nodded. “Henchard of Stone Mountain, do _not_ swear falsely. I once saw a man do so in my court, so desperate to obtain a legacy and so contemptuous of the gods that he believed himself above their justice. And I have no wish ever to see a man’s blood boil in his veins again. It was beyond description in its horror.” Hard old eyes considered his uncle. “Whatever guilt you bear cannot be capital. I have already rooted deep into the plans that the late lord of Genlith and former lord of Runnerspring laid, and vile traitors as both have proven they were not such fools as to have confided in a man as prone to drunkenness as you. If you cannot in conscience swear the oath your liegelord demands, you would be well advised simply to say so.”

His uncle’s fear and anger flared, but his voice lacked its usual volume.

“You have corrupted my nephew to this outrage!”

“Nonsense.” The old man sniffed, quellingly. “My charge here from His Majesty is simply to ensure that this irregular transfer of power is both genuine and enacted smoothly, as it evidently is and thus far has been. I have been extremely careful to say nothing prejudicial, either to my lord of Stone Mountain or anyone else, though I did lay out for him clearly what exactly was confessed at the treason trials in Corus, and by whom. And it might interest you to know, Lord Henchard, though I take leave to doubt your ability to understand what it means, that the _only_ reason the sentences at those trials were not uniformly capital, as the crimes proven fully warranted, was the advice His Majesty sought and received from Countess Keladry.”

His uncle’s jaw dropped. “What are you talking about?”

“Truth, my lord, and I warn you I will brook no further discourtesy. The Countess is, you see, sick of killing fools, even when also traitors, as well she might be, given her personal tally. Blazebalm is unavoidably messy, however swift.” The old man slowly dusted his hands with grim satisfaction as more faces than his uncle’s blenched. “Now, my lord, are you going to swear that oath, as your liegelord very properly requires, or are you going to declare yourself unable to do so?”

His uncle tried to rally, turning to him.

“And what if I do refuse? It’s beneath—”

“Then, Uncle, you become a problem I will have to solve, an elder kinsman who cannot be trusted and whose tarnished reputation imperils my fief. If you can swear, do so now.”

The silence dragged, and after a moment Taren opened a hand.

“Then you cannot. So. I would be within my rights to order your death, and gods know there are enough past lords of Stone Mountain who would have done so without blinking. But I am advised by my father to heed Countess Keladry, whom His Grace tells us is sick of killing fools, which means you have a choice, Uncle. You can swear a gods’ oath to leave Tortall within thirty days and never cross its borders again, or you may live strictly confined to your estates at Margaran, communicating with none by letter and receiving no visitors without my let.” Taren paused for just long enough. “If you choose Margaran, the estate will of course be guarded to ensure your compliance. And though I will bear the expense, those men will wear maroon, not the uniforms of the Stone Guard. There will also be magical wards against any escape.”

“You can’t mean that.”

The voice so often raised in anger held a quavering note.

“Oh, but I do. Every last word of it, Uncle. Swear the oath, or choose between exile and lifelong confinement.”

It was confinement, of course, as Taren had known it would be if the oath could not be sworn, for what could his uncle do abroad, without money? And he’d imagine there might be a way out, in time, though he’d be disappointed. It was a bleak, brutal business, and his voice was harsh as he gave the decree, but the relief he could see in Saman’s and Varia’s eyes as their uncle was at last taken out under guard was worth it.

Dealing with his uncle’s various appointees was easier. Five could and did swear the oath of innocence, soft chimes bringing cries of surprise from many, and were allowed to return to their posts, for now at least ; the six who declined he promptly remitted to the custody of His Grace of Wellam, pending investigation of what exactly they knew, while also dismissing them from his service. The woman also declined to swear, her eyes bitter though her voice was mocking.

“I have no wish to feel my blood boil any more than it is already, my lord. And your uncle talks in bed as well as in his cups.” She blew out a breath. “I couldn’t make much sense of it, but he clearly knew something was up that shouldn’t be. So I did too, and I held my tongue, not that there was anyone I could have told anyway.”

Taren didn’t conceal his wince, but kept his own voice gentle.

“I hear you, Mistress Briana. And while I must resent the affront to my aunt that you represent, I am well aware that you had little choice, and have more than once stayed blows Saman or Varia would have taken, or suffered them yourself, and for that I would forgive you a great deal. Whatever promises my uncle may have made you must lapse, but I have instructed Steward Thalric to pay you a pension drawn on my uncle’s former estates, and though I must ask you to leave my household, I will provide reasonable lodgings in the town or give you sufficient to settle somewhere else of your choice.”

Mockery and bitterness alike vanished, replaced by shock.

“You mean it, my lord?”

“I am not my uncle. What I say, I mean, and what I promise, I do. I cannot like you, Mistress Briana, nor approve your conduct, but I desire only your absence from my household.”

“Then you have my sincere thanks, my lord. It is more than I expected. And if I may stay in the town, I will. Such kin and friends as I have are here.”

“Very well. Go with Steward Thalric, now, and he will see about removing your rightful possessions to your new lodgings.”

She gave him a look with renewed suspicions as she went, but he had instructed Thalric to be generous in letting her take whatever clothes and furnishings his uncle had given her, as well as any savings she’d managed from the funds he had occasionally provided. Jewellery was another matter, though, for there were heirloom pieces among the rings, necklaces, bracelets, and brooches Briana had worn when on his uncle’s arm ; things actually purchased new for her — such as they were, his uncle having a great deal less taste than money — she could keep or sell as she would, and welcome.

With the day’s business at last done Taren formally closed proceedings, thanking the Lord Magistrate for his attendance, and invited him to retire with the family for a glass of wine before the evening meal. At his glance, Sam and Var collected their aunt and mother, escorting them as they followed, and once the wine was served Taren thanked and dismissed the servants until food was ready. Taking a breath, he went to sit next to his aunt, whose eyes were dark with new uncertainties.

“I’m so sorry you had to see and hear all that, Aunt Lily, but I didn’t feel I had any choice.” He shrugged wearily. “You said you wanted to be free of Uncle Henchard, as we all do, and banishment would become public knowledge in any case. And it’s not only that he would never have accepted my authority in fief or household, though that matters. I’m afraid that however little he actually knew about the traitors’ plans and links with Maggur, he is tainted by his long association with Genlith and many of those who sought the King’s death.” Taren took a deep breath. “I cannot suppose it much comfort, but for once the awful way he treated you helps you, because no-one supposes you knew anything, but he and the fief as a whole are … besmirched.” The word so often used by his father and uncle was for once true, and he saw the Lord Magistrate’s eyes glint. “And if we are to recover we must have a clear break with how Stone Mountain has been.”

A wary curiosity sparked in his aunt’s gaze, and he sensed his mother sit forward before he heard her wavering voice.

“A break, Taren dear? What sort of … what do you mean?”

He turned to face her. “Only what I say, Mama. All else aside, Genlith will be under royal administration for a year at least, while His Grace investigates, so we have to reorganise everything its late lord did for Father.” The Lord Magistrate nodded agreement. “And we need to make other changes, tightening supervision of our trade and where it goes. Don’t worry, please — it shouldn’t affect you or Aunt Lily personally, but I will be very busy for several months.” He looked at his aunt. “That’s another reason I had to banish Uncle Henchard now, because I’ll need to travel widely within the fief, and I would not leave you here with no-one to overrule him.”

After a moment his aunt patted his hand lightly.

“Thank you, Taren.” Her voice was very soft, by habit as much as anything else, he thought. “He’s really gone, then. And her.”

“Yes, they really are.” Taren blew out a breath. “And you are both free to do as you will. Whatever you will. Gods know you’ve both endured enough. But Mama, Aunt Lily, you do need to understand that things _are_ going to change.” He sat forward, bracing hands on knees. “Beyond proper courtesy, this is why I have asked His Grace to join us now, to help me explain. I said that we _need_ to change, and that’s the plain truth. It’s not only to cleanse the taint of treason, though that is a necessity. But I’m also beginning to understand that Tortall’s been changing around us for years, while we’ve been held back by Father’s conservatism and … withdrawal. And while all the central and southern fiefs were safe during this last Scanran War, the north has been hit hard and often, and war forces change. And then there’s the way it ended — the news from New Hope shocked everyone, not just us, and if we keep standing still we’ll be so far behind that we won’t be anything more than a history lesson. As far as I can tell, Father’s abdication means people are willing to wait and see what I’ll do. But, bluntly, as the full facts of the Peace Treaty sink in, and the tales about Countess Keladry, I think any undue delays will be seriously unpopular.”

“I concur, my ladies.” The Lord Magistrate’s glance at Taren seemed approving. “Forgive me, but Lord Taren is further-seeing than his father, and, however irregular the circumstances, his accession to the lordship of Stone Mountain coincides with sweeping changes that will not be denied. To fight them would be foolish, as to embrace them is wise.”

His mother nodded, but her frown remained and her voice was still uncertain.

“But why is there to be such change so fast, Your Grace? I don’t understand.” Words suddenly came in a rush. “How has the Lady Knight done all this? When he hated her Burchard was always talking about her fouling Tortall’s honour, and then about her being responsible for my stepson’s death, though I never understood how she could be. But after he met her in Corus two Midwinters back he wouldn’t say anything about her at all, until news of this victory came and he suddenly said he’d be going away and Taren had to take over. And now there are all these wild stories about the siege and the treaty and this bridge she built, and none of it makes any sense to me.”

Her voice had risen almost to a wail, but to Taren’s surprise the Lord Magistrate’s mouth quirked into a smile.

“You are by no means alone in your confusion, my lady. I was there to see events with my own eyes, and I am still struggling to accept what transpired, never mind understand the implications.” He shook his head. “At my age I do not expect surprises, but the whole business was extraordinary from the moment we all arrived at New Hope and Runnerspring failed to pass the Honesty Gate. And it only got stranger.”

Taren saw his sister’s eyes light with curiosity. Var’s love of mathematics had long been joined by an obsession with the stone- and metalwork that was the fief’s lifeblood, as well as a fascination with magery, though she had had to conceal all three from her father and uncle.

“May I ask how the Honesty Gate works, Your Grace?”

The Lord Magistrate’s eyebrows rose. “Of course, Lady Varia, but I fear I can tell you only that it has griffin magic spelled into its stone, so that standing under it no-one can lie, nor be fooled by any illusion. A very useful bit of magecraft. There’s one at Northwatch, too, I gather.” He hesitated. “I cannot avow it, but I _believe_ the griffins undertook the spell at New Hope because they felt they owed Lady Keladry a debt for her care of their kit, when she was squire to my lord of Goldenlake. The kit certainly looks to her when he’s at New Hope.”

“Oh, I know that story.” Varia bounced in her seat. “She killed the centaur who’d stolen him. Is he there often, Your Grace?”

“Far too often, frankly, Lady Varia. He is … impertinent. Little menace.” This last was a mutter and Taren saw his sister’s eyebrows twitch up, wondering himself what form griffin impertinence might take. “Ha-hmm. Be that as it may, as commander of New Hope, one of Lady Keladry’s standing orders was that anyone entering for the first time must declare their name and that they intended no harm to it or its people — a declaration Runnerspring found himself unable to make. The undiluted dreamrose found in his saddlebags was the first hard evidence of his treasonous intents.”

He turned back to the older women, giving a slight shrug.

“A proper account of events would take all evening, my ladies, assuming I could manage one. The historians are already at work, commissioned by His Majesty and the Council of Ten, and we must all wait on their labours. What matters more is to say plainly, with apologies for any distress it may cause you, that Lord Burchard was from the first wholly mistaken about Lady Keladry. Blinded by his belief that as a woman she _should_ not attempt knighthood, he supposed she _could_ not be a warrior. He was by no means alone in that error, but the, ah, depth of his misjudgement, shall we say, was extreme. And of course Lady Keladry has never fouled Tortall’s honour — quite the opposite — and bears no responsibility whatever for the death of your stepson. For whatever reason, he failed his Ordeal, and the elemental of the Chamber did not let him leave it alive. No mortal man or woman had any say in it — none ever has, nor ever will.”

Taren took that last under mild advisement, for Lady Keladry had spoken to the elemental, which was not how things were quite supposed to be, and Horgan had passed on some odd stories about new pages and their parents being warned that the Ordeal of Knighthood would include testing for chivalry as well as fighting ability ; but he had no wish to interrupt. The Lord Magistrate harrumphed a little, clearing his throat.

“As to more recent events, the nub of the matter is that, as all now know, Lady Keladry has proved herself every inch the commander that my lords of Cavall and Goldenlake said she was, decisively scotching the treason Runnerspring and Genlith had hatched, and even more decisively winning the war by killing King Maggur. And, my ladies, it is not just the fact of her victories that is important, but their manner, which was astonishing, and the scale of the casualties she inflicted, which was terrifying.” Taren didn’t doubt it, but there was a grim satisfaction in the Lord Magistrate’s voice all the same. “To be blunt, my Ladies, one reason change will accelerate, here and in Scanra, is that a very great number of those who would have opposed it are dead, and more have been sentenced to imprisonment for life. Moreover, to win her victory Lady Keladry also forged a series of new alliances — friendships, even, odd as it seems — with immortals, including dragons. What has been, since the Immortals War ended, occasional and uneasy contact, has at New Hope become something far greater.”

He drained his glass, refusing the refill Saman politely offered.

“Thank you, Lord Saman, but one glass is enough before we eat. I don’t believe anyone mortal, even Lady Keladry, really knows how New Hope will develop. Mmm. Forgive me, but there really is no way of making this sound more probable, and I can only report what I saw.” Taren saw a glint in his eye, and realised the old man actually rather relished being improbably truthful. “ _Something_ about the dragons’ participation in the creation of the new bridge across the Vassa occasioned a procession of gods to manifest and walk across it, delivering blessings, which in turn led to the dragons … well, dancing is the only word that does justice to it. Scores of them, dancing on the wind.” The old hands moved around one another in an oddly graceful gesture. “I do not believe I have ever seen anything at once so beautiful and terrible. Even the massed gods did not surpass it.” His shrug was eloquent. “As to what it was really all about, besides naming the bridge _Drachifethe_ , meaning ‘the dragons’ wyrd’, Lady Keladry declines to offer any explanation, declaring the whole matter the business of the gods and dragons, and none of hers or ours, a view with which I can sympathise.” His lips quirked. “But I can add that she seems to believe it to have been another peace treaty of a sort, formally ending a conflict of great antiquity between gods and dragons. We must be glad it is over, I dare say, but the whys and wherefores do not affect what truly matters to Tortall, which is that the Great North Road now runs unbroken from Corus to Hamrkeng. And that too will accelerate change, my ladies, for trade is already growing sharply, bringing peaceful Scanrans south with it — and they in turn bring their own tales and ballads of Lady Keladry’s exploits.”

The Lord Magistrate’s gnarled old hands suddenly turned and spread wide as he shrugged.

“When all is said and done, the real point is simply — or not so simply — Lady Keladry herself. Consider, my ladies, how very determined she must have been to become the first woman since the Lioness to achieve knighthood, and how strong her character, her will, had to be. I had the honour of instructing her before her Ordeal, and she was formidable even then, as well as clearly a woman of deep honour. The war put her into command very young, and she rose magnificently to the challenge. His Majesty has, boldly and in my view very rightly, made her the youngest Councillor and youngest person to be ennobled for centuries, and bestowed an _enormous_ land grant — more than a million-and-a-half acres, which the Scanrans matched, recognising her as a clanchief.”

Taren had been very surprised by the figures when he’d first heard them, and his mother had clearly not taken them in at all before now, paling even further as she did so.

“More than a million …”

 “Just so, my ladies, and doubled by the Scanrans. Counting those territories beyond our border, to cross the fief of New Hope south to north is more than a hundred miles, and east to west even further, so Countess and Clanchief Keladry is now in soberest fact one of the three most powerful northern nobles, with her ducal father at Mindelan and Lord Fergal haMinch. And while much of the land is yet poor and only thinly settled, that will change. His Majesty deliberately included the silver mines formerly of Tirrsmont, and there is already a flow of pilgrims to see Drachifethe, so I don’t imagine it will be long before New Hope is as great a financial power as it already is a military one. Moreover, the immortals at New Hope do not simply accept Lady Keladry’s authority, calling her ‘Protector’, but plainly admire her, and intend to stay in her service. Despite her own protests mortals and immortals unanimously elected her Master of the Craftsbeings’ Guild. She also enjoys divine favour, as Lord Burchard finally realised, and from what I and many saw, on Drachifethe and at New Hope, is chosen of more than one god. Add it all together, my ladies, and marvel, but then consider that Countess Keladry is not only herself an embodiment of change — she is also demanding and forcing change in many things, politically and through her Mastership, and _that_ will cut deep into Stone Mountain’s proper concerns. So to sum up, Lord Taren is quite correct to anticipate significant change throughout the realm, and wise to support rather than seek to oppose it.”

Taren nodded his thanks, and met his mother’s eyes, still uncertain but looking more thoughtful.

“So I am beginning as I mean to go on, Mama. But I do have one particular problem that concerns you and Aunt Lily, because as soon as the basic overhaul of the fief is done, and work’s running smoothly again, before Midwinter I very much hope, I have a longer journey I need to make, so the question arises of whom I leave as my regent. Sam can’t do it before he comes of age, and in any case he and Var will be coming with me. I would trust Captain Horgan, but he has no wish to take on the political and social responsibilities, so I have asked His Majesty to recommend a knight or senior officer freed from military duties by the end of the war.”

His mother frowned. “But where do you have to go that takes so long, dear?”

“Corus, Mama, in the first place, for Midwinter. I am commanded to attend the Council of Nobles, as is right, and I have a lot of fences to mend. If you and Aunt Lily want to come for the festivities you’re both very welcome. But in the Spring, once the thaw comes, Sam, Var, and I will be heading north, to New Hope.”

Both older women sat bolt upright.

“New Hope? Truly? Why?”

Taren took a careful breath. “In the first place, to make my own peace with Countess Keladry, Mama, and for what little they are worth to offer her my apologies for all that Stone Mountain has said of and done to her. We know Joren did her wrong, and Father, and though he told me he’d apologised to her for what he called misspeaking of her, I doubt his words were … adequate. In any case, I wish to make my own, and draw a line under past wrongs. But I also want to know what the elemental of the Chamber of the Ordeal said about Joren. Apart from Father only two people heard, and His Majesty informed me that while he would not tell me himself, he had no objection to my asking the Countess.” And no certainty that she would be willing to say anything, but Taren hoped and thought she would understand why he needed to know — not on Joren’s account, but on his father’s. “I also need to talk to the Craftsbeings’ Guild as soon as possible about obtaining their help here, and I think we have a better chance of getting it if I go in person.”

“You want to … to bring Immortals here?”

“I do, Mama.”

“But they’re dangerous!”

“Not all are, Mama, and we _must_ stop thinking of them as enemies. You know about the King’s requirement for treaties.”

His mother frowned. “But that’s if you have immortals on your lands, isn’t it?”

“Primarily, Mama, but it does us no credit that immortals seem to avoid Stone Mountain. Besides, those of the Guild have shown themselves more than trustworthy, and we need them, badly. For one thing, His Grace tells me that the ogres and basilisks at New Hope have new ways of mining that make it very much less dangerous, and you know how many men die in our mines.” Not that his father had ever seemed to care much beyond lost or delayed profits, but no-one could live at Stone Mountain for long and remain ignorant of the frequent accidents. “It is both right and politic that I do whatever I can to change that. And for another, the reports from Corus are clear that these new icelights the Craftsbeings’ Guild is selling have made the city much safer, so everyone wants their own — and though I fear Stone Mountain will have to wait some while, I intend to place an order. It will also serve as another clear sign that I am not my father, and that Stone Mountain is changing, for the better.”

There were more things he might have added, but the call to dinner made a natural break, and Taren rather thought spidrens who could scale curtain walls to inspect stonework, and darkings who could — the Lord Magistrate assured him — communicate immediately across any distance, would only frighten his poor mother and aunt the more. There was also a benefit in turning the conversation, and over dinner he steered it to the question of attracting healers to the fief, and training homegrown hedgewitches, topics his father had scorned that were dear to his mother’s heart, and that he had happily placed in her purview.

Sam and Var were another matter, though, and Taren had spent most of what little free time he’d had since his father’s shocking decision to resign in lively conversation with them about the unending implications of events at New Hope. Both were itching to set off, and privately so was he, but Stone Mountain had to be set in better order first, and he knew he had some hard weeks ahead, as well as the stint in Corus with all its politics. But however truly hard the immediate future might prove, with his father and uncle gone for good it would be better than any of the past, and not only for him.

 

* * * * *

 

As summer heat ebbed and leaves began to turn, Taren found himself giving frequent thanks to the gods for his siblings. Sam accompanied him as he traversed and circled his fief, at once educating himself to be an able regent, making good impressions with his cheer and open manners, and offering himself as confidante and counsellor when Taren needed to vent or felt overwhelmed. The wariness of so many liegers was only to be expected after lifetimes of dealing with Lords Burchard and Henchard, the one ever liable to icy as the other to bellowing displeasure ; but it grated, and however well Taren knew abstractly that proving himself other than they would take time, his heart hurt as he tried to deal with the fears his arrival always aroused. Kindness to his liegers’ younger children was often the best tactic, reassuring parents and laying foundations for easier relations in future, while the children’s relaxation once he proved himself friendly was a comfort to Taren himself.

There were a great number of practicalities also. Neither his father’s various deputies nor Genlith’s overseers had ever been slipshod — his father would not have tolerated it — but their priorities had been profit and keeping rigidly to traditional ways ; and as the weeks passed it became very clear that both his father, in his grief for Joren, and Genlith, as treason consumed him, had seriously failed in their supervision of the fief. At the smaller end of the scale very many tasks involving sufficient expenditure to require authorisation had been left undone, so Taren found himself signing scores of chits for repairs to cottage and barn rooves, heavier fencing, river embankments, and the like ; while at the larger end a good deal of corruption and peculation had crept into the flows of stone, ore, metals, and complex ironwork — encouraged, he came to realise, by an unspoken awareness that Genlith had diverted a considerable volume of foods and metals, and sauce for the lord was sauce for the liegeman. In all but a few of the most serious cases Taren was willing to forgive and forget, but that did not mean allowing improprieties to continue, and he had to expend considerable effort imposing new controls, as well as expanding the wage-bill.

Money, though, was one thing that wasn’t a problem. Even with Genlith’s depredations Stone Mountain’s coffers remained deep, and income was rising : sudden victory and welcome peace had boosted confidence everywhere, and, if now challenged in the north by New Hope, Stone Mountain remained for central and most of southern Tortall the primary source of ashlar, iron, and steel alike. When the Lord Magistrate’s enquiries at Genlith were concluded it was possible that fief’s fines might spill over onto Stone Mountain, but His Majesty had been clear that while his fief’s political power was broken until and unless he could restore it — should he decide he wanted to — Burchard’s innocence of treason and abdication of lordship left a clean slate. Taren suspected, and Sam thoughtfully agreed, that His Majesty had foreseen the necessary surge in expenditure, in effect endorsing it, and the thought connected with a new awareness of just how many people in his fief might serve as royal eyes and ears. It was entirely reasonable, however disturbing, and Taren knew that while he was being given his chance, he was himself being closely watched, and guessed that as well as those reporting to Corus there would be others reporting elsewhere.

For the most part, Taren decided after some hard thought, when it came to such politics he was best advised to say little and do less. The shatteringly final violence of Countess Keladry’s response to the revealed treason — leaving Genlith, Groten, and Heathercove as vacant fiefs, joined after the mass treason trial in Corus by Runnerspring and Torhelm (with Marti’s Hill escaping attainder only by the skin of its teeth, its grieving lord paying a whopping fine and conceding a royal veto over any appointed heir) — had all but quashed any _political_ opposition to the House of Conté. What was still stirring, Taren thought, was simpler greed as neighbouring lords and second sons eyed newly vacated lands ; and as he had no interest whatever himself, and even less desire to be drawn into any covetous scheming, he was relieved and grimly amused when in late October news broke that His Majesty had (despite what sounded like much noble screaming) disallowed _all_ collateral claims for the vacant fiefs and awarded them to new men he thought deserving. Sir Douglas of Voeldine, who had been acting as royal governor at Torhelm since its Lord’s arrest, became a baron and took it over permanently, while the plum of Runnerspring went to the southern Army commander, Alan of Pearlmouth, also newly ennobled. Groten and Heathercove likewise had new liegelords who had served in the northern armies, and in all four fiefs, as successive proclamations made clear, new brooms would be sweeping clean.

The news did generate one more openly political approach, from an obsequious merchant whose trade ran through Runnerspring, about the _expensive_ effect of all this regrettably high-handed royal change, to which Taren deliberately over-responded by sending the startled man in chains to Corus, and having the award of rightly vacant fiefs to men who richly deserved them proclaimed. He received in due course a mildly ironic note of thanks from His Majesty, approving the value of example while remarking that treason charges did require evidence of deeds as well as words ; and another, much more surprisingly, from Sir Myles of Olau, observing that while the merchant had been known and watched, and the considerable fright he had been afforded was no doubt salutary, it was generally preferable to trace middlemen back to their principals before arresting them. Taren thought about it, and sent a brief reply politely agreeing while noting that although His Majesty had graciously understood the value of example, he, Taren, had no desire to make more of them than was necessary for his own peace of mind.

He and Sam spent several evenings on the road arguing through the various implications. Although they had never been formally instructed in anything political, childhoods at Stone Mountain had taught them both a great deal about secrecy, political dissent, and the value of being well informed, all thrown into sharp relief by the revelations of treason, and neither had any doubt that Sir Myles and his mysterious deputy had fingers in ever so many pies. Then again, a bristling loyalty to the House of Conté was presently very much in his fief’s best interests, and Taren knew he lacked the temperament for anything but maximal honesty. A visceral disgust with Joren’s effortless hypocrisy and acting, his elegant, smiling face, vile personality, and privy violence against the powerless, was among his and Sam’s earliest memories, its effects reinforced by the absolute gulf between the limited happiness they had known in their mother’s rooms and the tense fear associated with rare visits to their father’s and uncle’s chambers.

“All in all, Sam,” Taren concluded one night, “I don’t regret the gesture. The politics we _can’t_ avoid because of our trade and wealth are more than enough for us to deal with. Father relied on Genlith’s management of the fief to give him time to throw his weight around in Corus, so I won’t have the same leisure anyway, and if I did I wouldn’t use it like that. The sooner any of the remaining conservatives realise I’m not interested in their prejudices and resentments, the better.”

Sam nodded. “That I get, Tar. But some of our bigger trade contracts were made through Father’s political influence.”

“True, but I doubt we’ll lose any of them because I’m obviously playing it very cautiously. After all, what can anyone expect me to do with Father abdicating like that, Genlith dead at New Hope, and Runnerspring imprisoned for life?”

“Mmm. And when they realise it’s not caution but conviction?”

Taren shrugged. “Ending any of those contracts would be a bigger problem for them than for us. What do I know, but if they’re opposing Lady Keladry and the Craftsbeings’ Guild, I think they’ll find they have enough problems already without needlessly making more.” He drummed fingers briefly on his thigh. “If she proves hostile because of _him_ and Father, I might have to rethink, but I don’t believe she will be. From something the King said, I think we have her to thank for his generosity in lending us those senior clerks, and by all accounts she takes people — and immortals — as she finds them. Duke Turomot also made a point of telling me about the way she’s redeemed, his word, Sir Voelden, despite that business of the joust and what happened to his father.”

“Fair enough.” Sam frowned. “I knew Sir Voelden was at New Hope, and fought under her command, but nothing more. Did Duke Turomot explain what he meant?”

“Not in detail, but he did say Sir Voelden gave blood to the offering for the treaty.”

“He did? Huh. That’s something, all right.” Sam grinned. “I still can’t really believe that when Lord Mithros and the Great Goddess manifested she invited them to dinner. I thought that had to be nonsense until His Grace confirmed the tale. And the gods _dancing_ afterwards!”

Taren nodded, but had only a half-smile to offer in return. “I was taken aback too, Sam, but the gods’ involvement worries me more than anything else. I hope I’ve never been impious, but I did use to pray for Joren’s death.”

“Me too, Tar. Why would they blame us for that, though? We only wanted to be safe.”

“Maybe. But wanting a kin-death can’t be a good thing. And Father’s notions of piety have left me heartily sick of it, while none of the priests have been any use at all in helping to understand what really happened at New Hope.”

“But that’s because no-one really understands, Tar. Even Lady Keladry, according to Duke Turomot.”

“He said she wasn’t saying. Doesn’t mean she doesn’t know — better than anyone else, anyway.”

“Maybe. I agree we could do with some new priests. Tover’s useless. We should set Var on it.”

This time Taren did grin, just as delighted as Sam with the way Varia was blossoming, and how helpful she was being. She’d been ten when Joren died, young enough for deliverance from his looming threat to allow her some real peace of mind as she entered womanhood. He and Sam, at thirteen and twelve abruptly the heirs presumptive and secondary, had had to cope with their father’s and uncle’s grief more often and directly, but Varia, as a young girl never of much interest to either, had been able to breathe a great deal more easily. She had had to conceal the extent of her studies with their tutor, but their father’s withdrawal into virtual seclusion and Uncle Henchard’s more frequent and longer absences had made doing so much easier, and meant there was no-one at hand to scorn her requests to visit the quarries, mines, foundries, and workshops on which the fief’s wealth depended.

By her own accounts, the various masters and administrators she’d met had usually been torn between an almost automatic disdain for a girl-child and an engrained, swift deference to any member of the ruling family. However they had behaved in private, neither his father nor uncle would ever have tolerated the least disrespect by a commoner towards any child of the blood, and Var had used that, with careful politeness, to learn much of what she wanted to know. Marshalling her thoughts afterwards, she had also taught him and Sam a great deal over the last five years about the workings and weaknesses of the fief — the master miners and foundrymen who at least tried to insist on safety, and the ones who willingly cut corners to hasten profit ; the haphazard use of proper calculations when new shafts and adits were excavated, with the consequent problems ; and the clear connections between low pay, overlong shifts, and more serious accidents. More importantly, puzzled by the wide variations in practice (and, Taren thought, at some deep level offended by their inefficiency), Var had with their tutor’s discreet help tracked them to their causes — the management and accounting systems Genlith had imposed, rigidly setting quotas for production without caring how they were achieved, and devolving responsibility for most practical decisions to the same masters and administrators who had to meet the quotas, under penalty of summary dismissal or worse. The result was that those mines and quarries that were well-run to begin with prospered readily, while those that for whatever reason had trouble meeting quotas tended to stay in trouble despite (and then because of) frequent changes in leadership. With the foundries the picture was more even, but those that faced shortages of ore following mining difficulties or accidents were penalised for events beyond their control ; and with investment tightly bound to productivity, a polarisation had resulted that was unjust as well as a source of frictions and discontents.

Almost the first thing Taren had done, once the astonishing proclamation of events at New Hope, including the death of Genlith, and his father’s curt communication of his decision to abdicate, had sunk in, had been to ask Var how he should change things ; and his first real orders had been shaped by her advice. Had he had to deal with Genlith and his overseers he would not have had such a free hand, but as one was dead and several of the others in custody or flight, he could do as he would, and to Var’s great satisfaction did. Quotas were abolished, a fief office of safety and standards was created, staffed, and given some teeth, and sharp financial penalties — or worse — were attached to accidents, giving masters and managers a strong incentive to prioritise safety. Two mines and a quarry were closed as beyond recovery, their workers and staff going to others to ease workload, and foundry investment was redirected. There had been protests, and much muttering, but slightly improved wages, significantly improved conditions, and a very public change in responses to accidents and care of those who survived one (or the widows and children of those who didn’t) meant the great majority of miners and foundrymen were happy with him.

More would follow, Taren hoped, if he could persuade the Craftsbeings’ Guild to assist, but that, he discovered, would involve some tricky politics on more than one count. The Miners’ and Metalworkers’ Guilds, to which all masterminers and mastersmiths necessarily belonged, were both particularly hidebound, even as guilds went, while both (with the Glassworkers and some others) were also at present severely put out by the chartering of the Craftsbeings’ Guild and its royally granted monopoly on immortal work — including mining done by ogres, metalwork by ogres and centaurs, and basilisk-glass. In the usual way of things there would have been protests, loud and quite probably violent, to preserve established interests, but besides the considerations that opposing Lady Keladry or New Hope’s heroic immortals just now was sufficiently unwise that even the most bone-headed guildsman knew it, and that the King had not been in Corus to be protested to until his return from the north in July, the Metalworkers in particular were in severe internal turmoil. It was their skills that Genlith and Maggur had most needed to make the killing devices and the trebuchet, and the mass treason trial in Corus had convicted a full dozen former mastermetalworkers, while the King’s return had seen a score of forced resignations and retirements, in several guilds, with consequent promotions of younger but less certain men.

It should all have made Taren’s life easier, and might yet, but there was a more personal consideration. It had been unthinkable while his father ruled, but when news that Lady Keladry had achieved knighthood had broken Varia had privately joked to him and Saman that perhaps she should do for mining what the Lady Knight had done for fighting, and join the Guild as an apprentice.

“I’ve read their whole charter, Tar, and there’s no rule against women joining. There used to be lady miners and even smiths, just as there were lady knights, but they stopped coming forwards.” He remembered Var’s face as she said it, earnestness twisting into frustration. “I know it’s impossible for me, but some girl should take them on.”

And now it wasn’t so impossible, but neither he nor Var, nor Sam, could tell if it would be better for her, and for the fief, to tackle the Miners’ Guild directly, using whatever levers he might, or to play them off somehow against the Craftsbeings’ Guild. Or even, he had suggested, to Var’s considerable surprise, if she might not be better off seeking an apprenticeship with the Craftsbeings’ Guild, and then tackling the remaining problems of the fief’s business under a quite different authority. Besides affection, not leaving her alone, and her long fascination with the Lady Knight, it was the principal reason Var would come with him and Sam to New Hope, to see for herself what her choices might be — and if that was a course of action Lady Keladry should approve, the bonus was welcome. But it meant more delays, and he was growing increasingly impatient to be off, if only to Corus.

Which could not happen until Stone Mountain was in a state to run smoothly under its royally recommended regent, whomever that might be. The King’s last letter had indicated that he had an army officer in mind but had not yet secured his agreement, and would be dealing with the matter once the Gallan negotiations concerning Princess Lianne were concluded. Taren knew better than needlessly to prod a monarch understandably unsettled by a very disturbed and disturbing year, as well as negotiating a royal marriage, and was in any case wary of the King while he was still feeling his way into lordship of Stone Mountain, but that didn’t stop him wishing devoutly that His Majesty would get on with it. Sighing, he settled himself to the problems he could do something about himself.

 

* * * * *

 

In the event Taren decided the King had done well by him, and by Stone Mountain. The man who rode in with a squad of maroon-clad soldiers, as November failed, was Svein of Hannalof, lately commanding at Eastwatch — nearing forty, Taren judged, tall and lean, with unruly black hair and shrewd eyes. Anticipating a military mind, Taren had sought advice from Captain Horgan, and made his briefing as crisp and clear as possible, setting out what his Father’s policies and Genlith’s methods had been, how he had changed them, and the sorts of problems that were arising, with the principles and parameters that guided his responses. Sam and Var chipped in where they had better first-hand knowledge, and Taren ended with some careful words about dealing with his mother and aunt, who both felt unable to face the social pressures they would inevitably have to endure in Corus.

“To be frank, Commander, while much improved they remain fragile. Save with regard to improving healer care for my common liegers, with which I have charged them both, neither will say much, if anything, about the running of the fief, but they will be concerned to know of what passes, and … domestic order, shall I say, is important to their peace of mind. If you could dine with them on any night when you are not otherwise committed, and perhaps take tea sometimes, I would be very grateful.”

Those shrewd eyes glinted, and Svein nodded. “Of course, my lord. I shall be happy to do so. It must have been a very difficult year for both ladies.” Taren appreciated the tactful understatement. “And thank you for the rest of your admirably clear briefing. Lord Saman and Lady Varia also. Having old and new policies set out like that is very helpful, and I confess I am pleased to have the new to enforce. May I ask how long you expect to be away, my lord?”

“I’m not sure, Commander. I have not yet had a reply from Countess Keladry, and it will depend on how we are received at New Hope, but if all goes well we expect to be there for a month at least.” Svein’s eyebrows rose, and Taren found himself explaining despite a slight sense of discomfort. “Besides some personal business with the Countess, I want to negotiate a contract with the Craftsbeings’ Guild to improve mine safety and the like, but as yet I simply don’t know what’s possible or how long it might take. And we won’t come directly back unless we must — we know little of Tortall beyond Stone Mountain, and it seems wise to take the chance when we have it. Do you have a deadline by which you will need to leave?”

“Not at all, my lord, unless the army should be returned to a war footing, all gods forfend. I remain in regular service, but with peace commanders are in less demand, and my secondment here is open-ended. I was merely enquiring. But I can assure you that Countess Keladry has already sent you a favourable response, so I will expect you to be away for most of next summer at least.”

Taren blinked. “Has she come south, then? I understood she was remaining at New Hope this winter.”

“She is, my lord. When the King asked me about this posting, he told me you meant to go to New Hope, and I later spoke to the Countess by spellmirror. She said she had been touched by your request, and warmly approved it, but that I would probably be here before her reply.”

“Oh. Thank you. That’s good to know.” And it was, though Taren found his stomach feeling unaccountably hollow. “Um, _touched_ by my request, Commander? Can you say any more?”

“If you wish, my lord.” Svein settled back a little in his chair, while Taren sat forward, seeing Sam and Var do the same. “I should say first that I do not know Countess Keladry well, by any means, but we do have a connection of a sort, in that one of her sisters, Lady Oranie, is married to my cousin Ortien. We only met during the war, though, at a commanders’ conference held at New Hope.” He gave a rueful smile. “Duty kept me away from the treaty signing, alas — someone had to look after Eastwatch — but I had the honour of attending her wedding at Midsummer, and as I had some leave I stayed for her coming-of-age party, and was still there when she and Count Domitan returned from their honeymoon.”

“A honeymoon?” Var twitched in her seat. “That wasn’t in any stories we heard. Where did they go? It can’t have been far or for long, if they were back so soon.”

Svein grinned. “You’d think, my lady, but it depends how fast you can travel. Everyone at New Hope knows, so it’s no secret, but all the same, you might want to be careful whom you tell.” He paused dramatically. “They went to the Dragonlands, for three days.”

Taren caught his jaw in time, just, and Svein’s grin became a laugh.

“I know. It sounds absurd, doesn’t it? But by all accounts, that’s Countess Keladry for you, always doing the unexpected in fine style. To be fair, though, it was as much business as pleasure, I believe — some Guild matter concerning their dragon apprentices.”

“There are _dragon_ apprentices?”

“There are, my lady. Sixteen of them. I stopped by New Hope when I came south from Eastwatch, and met them. Quite a few are yet unfledged, like Lady Skysong, but some are flying and I gather all are already working and learning hard. New Hope has also been designated as a dragon embassy, officially to the Craftsbeings’ Guild but more generally to the Mortal Realm. Astonishing. But to return to your question, my lord, the point is only that I had a chance to talk to the Countess over several evenings, and while I am no intimate of hers, I am a soldier senior enough to have to chew on army politics, so we did speak briefly of the challenges she has faced, and still faces, and Stone Mountain was mentioned.”

“Ah.” Taren met Sam’s and Var’s looks briefly. “I imagine, Commander, that my late half-brother’s name may have arisen. Please don’t hesitate to name him at need.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Svein looked a question. “His Grace of Wellam told me it should not be spoken to you.”

“Usually, no. It was my first order after receiving oaths. But that was because my father and uncle were forever praising and lamenting him, and we were all … very weary of it. I meant to stop that here, not make for foolish obstacles to conversations I welcome.” Taren shrugged slightly. “And it is partly to speak of him that I am going to New Hope.”

“Ah. Then yes, my lord, the Countess did mention your late half-brother, though only in passing. Your father’s legacy concerned her more. Forgive me, but she thought all his children must have had a difficult time, including Joren, and hoped the future would be brighter.”

Taren caught his jaw again, feeling shock in his stomach. Sam and Var were also staring.

“She feels sorry for _Joren_? After everything he did to her?”

Svein moved a hand ambivalently. “I would say so, in some measure, my lord. She certainly spoke of him as a victim of your father’s.”

“She is generous.” Taren heard the edge in his own voice and took a breath, settling himself. “And not wrong — I told my uncle he and my father had spoiled Joren. But frankly, Commander, none of us remember him with anything but relief that he’s dead.”

“Mmm.” Svein’s face was thoughtful. “That must be difficult for you. And I doubt the Countess would disagree, my lord. She certainly expressed no regrets. But she did say that she thought it should not have been the elemental’s responsibility to stop an obviously unfit squire.” He shrugged. “In any case, she was touched by your request because she hopes for a better relationship with you than was possible with your father and half-brother, but had not expected you to seek her out, and felt it boded well that you had.”

“Ah. Thank you, commander. That is helpful to know.” Curiosity leavened Taren’s relief. “Did she say who _should_ have stopped Joren?”

“Not in so many words, my lord, but her argument was that squires who are grossly unchivalrous should not be allowed to attempt an Ordeal of Knighthood, so I would think she believes that responsibility fell to Sir Paxton, as his Knight Master, and Lord Wyldon as Training Master.”

Taren had never met either man, though he had seen Sir Paxton once or twice when Squire Joren had returned to his home fief, but could not imagine anyone convincing his father of Joren’s imperfection, and said so. The unwelcome thought occurred that he should probably offer both men apologies, as well as Countess Keladry, chased by a second and more interesting puzzle.

“Tell me, Commander, if you can, is it true that page-training is to change? I’ve heard talk of new warnings about chivalry.”

Svein’s expression became cautious. “I do not believe _training_ is to change in any significant way, my lord, but I heard the King speak to the Army Council about a correlation between the, ah, characters and habits of certain knights and the fact of their treason. It does seem that a particular contempt for women was an important bond between many of the traitors who died at New Hope or were subsequently tried in Corus.”

Taren thought about it, and nodded. “That sounds right, Commander — I know both Genliths and both Runnersprings were scornful of all women. Both Torhelms also, though I never met them.”

“You missed nothing, my lord. The Groten brothers too, and Heathercove. _Very_ unpleasant men. And the younger Marti’s Hill was much the same, I gather, though we never met. General Vanget was certainly scathing about him. So there is understandable concern that such men should have become knights, and a greater emphasis on the demands of chivalry has been agreed.”

“By?”

“Besides Lord Padraig haMinch and His Majesty I could not say, my lord. The Army Council was being informed, not consulted.”

Taren wondered about the elemental’s severe treatment of Vinson of Genlith, whom he remembered all too well as Joren’s guest and fellow-tormentor, and would have liked to press the question, but could see Svein was uneasy with such a discussion in Var’s presence, and let it go.

“Fair enough, Commander. And my renewed thanks for your assurance that we will be welcome at New Hope.” He rang the servants’ bell, and asked for tea to be brought. “Yet I confess the prospect is a little daunting. Is there anything else you can tell us about Countess Keladry?”

Var looked her gratitude, but Taren was just as curious as his sister about the woman shaking Tortall. Svein’s mouth quirked a little.

“There are many things I might say, my lord. The Countess is a complex woman. It might be better if you were to ask questions.”

Taren raised an eyebrow at Var, who gave him a smile and set to.

“I think we are all simply wondering what she is like, Commander. I realise it sounds vague, but until His Grace of Wellam came here we had only Joren’s and our father’s curses to go on, and His Grace spoke more about what she has done than who she is.”

“As well he might my lady. And I am not sure one can so easily separate them.” Svein paused, obviously thinking. “You will understand when you see New Hope.” He shrugged. “But I know what you mean, and two tales come to mind. One is, ah, somewhat unpleasant, though.”

He was looking at Var, who met his gaze.

“Please do not hesitate about any war story on my account, Commander. I have seen mine accidents.”

When Svein’s eyes flicked to his, eyebrows rising, Taren nodded. Var needed protecting from some things, but not from tales of gore.

“Very well, my lady. But it is only incidentally a war story. Mmm. I’ll need to explain some background.” He thought for a moment. “When Lady Keladry’s report on Rathhausak was proclaimed, two years back, I was as pleased as anyone, for the rescued children and above all the end of the killing devices, which were vile beyond belief, but I confess I thought it all sounded very madcap. Her force was far too small for such a mission, and her success seemed very chancy. What Lord Wyldon had been thinking I couldn’t calculate at all.” Svein gave a small smile. “That winter was bitterly hard, so you can imagine that with us all huddling round the fire her deeds were much discussed.”

“Did you reach any conclusion?”

“Only that for all it read like a field report, a good deal must have been omitted. The word among my soldiers was that she’d gone in defiance of Lord Wyldon’s orders, not on them, which I cannot confirm but might explain a lot.” Taren saw Var blink : _that_ had not been in any version they’d heard. “In any case, come spring, stories about her and New Hope started spreading along the frontier. All seemed beyond easy credence — that New Hope was impregnable, that immortals called her ‘Protector’, that she was single-handedly re-starting the northern trade — but there were also versions of what happened in Corus with Torhelm, and what she had sworn by gods’ oath to be true. And you can imagine the difficulty everyone had believing _those_.”

Taren had never been told the story directly by his father, who had returned from Corus white and speechless, but the men Horgan had sent with him had heard eyewitness accounts they had hastened to relay, and he nodded.

“Certainly, Commander. It was a great wonder. Wonders, really — to die and be sent back, and to call on three gods to strike a man down and be promptly answered.”

“Just so, my lord. But General Vanget confirmed what had happened to Torhelm, citing the King as his witness, and assured me bluntly that many of the other stories were also true. There was also the news of Tirrsmont’s conviction and that fief’s dissolution, then of Lady Keladry’s appointment to the King’s Council in place of Torhelm. None of us knew what to make of it all. On a smaller scale, General Vanget also praised some very interesting standing orders he said Lady Keladry had devised, requiring me to institute them myself, and he doesn’t flatter anyone. Nor does my cousin Uline, who’d met her as a page, and was also very complimentary, so I concluded that whatever had really happened in Scanra, and for all this strange business with the gods, she must be a genuine commander, not just a lucky knight. And when General Vanget told me that the commanders’ conference was to be at New Hope, I looked forward to the visit. This was around Midsummer, a year back.”

There was a pause while tea was brought in and served, and Svein commented on the excellence of the cakes.

“I shall have to watch my sweet tooth here, I see. You have a very fine cook, my lord. But to continue, the whole visit proved far stranger and more difficult than I had expected. I’m sure you heard as much from His Grace, but New Hope truly is an astonishing place — the defences would be impressive anywhere, and to have created them from nothing, in a valley unclaimed and uninhabited before the war, remains an amazing achievement. And yet they are the least of it. The greater surprise, speaking as a commander, was the intense personal loyalty Lady Keladry had won from everyone there, civilian refugees, regular and convict soldiers, and immortals alike, and it was on open display because there was a very awkward situation. Do you know about Captain Rogal?”

“The man who killed Sir Merric of Hollyrose?”

“Yes. It had just happened, during the Battle of Scything Wheat, and the court martial delayed the start of the conference. News of the battle itself came as a shock, in the ruthlessness and exceptional success of Lady Keladry’s innovative tactics, as well as so many Scanrans surrendering, but the problem was Rogal. There was a fuss about his belated claim of noble privilege through the former lord of Runnerspring, that she cut through, and another when she appointed herself as headsman.” Svein’s hand again gave an ambivalent waggle. “Most of the senior commanders were … well, appalled wouldn’t be too strong. In the proper way of things, no-one of her rank should have to act as a headsman, and she was — is — _very_ young for her responsibilities. So General Vanget decided the visiting commanders would stay until after the execution, to offer her support. But I found, rather to my surprise, that I strongly approved of her conduct — she was exactly right about the regulations involved, and right again not to order another to do something she was unwilling to do herself. And that is what matters, because she _was_ unwilling. She _hated_ the prospect of killing in cold blood. But she wasn’t going to let that stop her from doing what she thought right. And when it came to it …”

His voice trailed away, seemingly lost in memory, and after a moment Sam broke the silence.

“When it came to it, Commander?”

 Svein sighed. “It was a moment of grace, my lord.”

“Grace?”

“Oh yes. It was done on the roadway, because Lady Keladry said she wouldn’t stain New Hope’s ground with Rogal’s blood, and by all rights it should have been a horror — her adopted son and the seer Irnai walked with her, although both are yet children, she had a pail as well as her glaive, which looked absurd and no-one understood, and there were stormwings lined up on both sides, so they could feed on Rogal’s fear.” Taren felt the punch of that detail. “But it wasn’t. I don’t know what she said to him, but she swore a gods’ oath — the chimes sounded for it — and whatever her truth was it made him kneel and offer his neck willingly, despite his fear. Her blow was exact. And then she knelt to vomit into the pail. I’ve never heard a deeper silence. But when she picked herself up she insisted that Rogal had died loyal and repentant, assuring everyone not only that the Black God had him safely, but that in death Sir Merric forgave him. Welcomed him, even.” Svein shrugged. “How she knew I have no idea, and I’ve never dared to ask her, but I believed her. Everyone who heard her did. And it mattered. Sir Merric had been popular, and Rogal widely disliked, so there was a lot of anger and an ugly satisfaction that he’d been condemned, but his death left everyone … humbled, I think, and … I don’t know, sorrowing more gently. There was quite a queue to pray at the shrines, afterwards. I went myself. And I found I believed absolutely that she had died, and met the Black God, and been sent back because Tortall needed her.”

They thought about it for a moment while Svein busied himself with his tea before looking up at Var.

“So if you ask what Lady Keladry is like, my lady, I tell you first that she is more than exceptionally courageous, utterly ruthless at need, and a deadly opponent, though she is all of those in extraordinary measure, as well as a superb leader. She is also a woman of grace in a way beyond easy understanding.” Unexpectedly Svein grinned. “Sometimes it’s profoundly surprising. At her wedding I saw her greet an enormous dragon, two gods, and two hounds of the Wild Hunt without so much as blinking, despite having to wrangle Their Majesties and the Yamani Prince and his delegation. And a bunch of Scanrans who’d turned up to honour a clanchief. Superb self-possession. Yet she also received a wedding gift and a personal note of congratulations from yet another god, and responded by howling with laughter and, as best I understood what happened, composing a poem in Yamani that had Prince and delegation all hopping.” Taren’s head spun. “But it’s more than all the astonishing things she does.” Svein’s face sobered. “His Majesty says that since her death and return Lady Keladry can hear the gods as the rest of us cannot. I do not disagree, but however strange it may sound, I think it is not only that she hears them, but that they hear her.”

Taren didn’t know what to make of that, and Sam and Var looked as uncertain as he must himself. Svein nodded.

“I know, but you asked, my lady, and there it is.” He grinned again. “The Scanrans call her a dragonlord, meaning that if she meets one she can count on it talking to her, not killing her, and perhaps something similar applies to her relationship with the gods. Anyway, the second thing that came to mind is much simpler. Some months after the conference, General Vanget asked me to investigate the whereabouts and status of the family of a convict soldier stationed at New Hope. It was an unusual order, because the army is wary of mixing private business with official channels, but it does happen when there’s reason, so I saw to it myself and forgot it. Until, a few weeks later, I received a letter of thanks from Lady Keladry, explaining why she’d made the request of General Vanget, and enclosing a letter from the soldier involved that left me speechless. My simple report had meant the world to him, quite literally. His story is not mine to tell, but I realised that Lady Keladry had acted not only as a good, a very good commander, caring for a man whose welfare was her responsibility, but in … well, precisely targeted kindness was how I thought of it. She’d bent regulations and leaned on General Vanget, just a little, because she realised that it truly mattered to her charge that she do so. And I tell you, my lords, my lady, such insight is a rare thing. So I also tell you that as well as her gods’ grace, Lady Keladry is _kind_.”

Svein hesitated for a moment, but went on. “This is awkward to say, but I would urge you to consider the burdens she bears in that light. Are you aware of how many Scanrans were killed assaulting New Hope?”

Taren frowned. “More than two thousand, according to the King’s proclamation.”

“Yes. Quite a lot more. And nearly five hundred Tortallan traitors as well. But what that proclamation did not say is that a significant majority of the Scanrans and most of the traitors died at Lady Keladry’s own hands. She set off all the mageblasts personally — the blazebalm bombs and pit-traps — and controlled the dragonfire that finished off the assault. You will never meet anyone who has killed more men, and though she says nothing it was clear to me that it weighs heavily on her.” He shrugged. “Every soldier who sees action must learn to live with having killed, and after the first time it’s not so hard. But to deal death on _that_ scale is something else. And then to be celebrated and honoured for it … well, I can’t imagine. But I did notice that she prays at the Black God’s shrine every morning, and I doubt she only gives thanks for being returned.”

It was testimony to leave anyone thoughtful, and Svein seemed to have said all he was willing to say, the conversation turning with Sam’s questions to military organisation, and with Var’s to the Guild. But as they broke to change for dinner there was one more thing Svein offered them all.

“When people first see New Hope and its immortal residents, they have to overcome fright. It’s natural enough, but it has a corollary, that once they get over it they swing to the other extreme, and become fascinated. New Hopers call it Immortals’ Intoxication, and while the immortals are polite about it, I strongly suspect they find it irritating. I know I would, in their place. If you can manage to avoid it, I think you’ll find negotiations with the Guild easier. Just be practical — immortals seem to appreciate it.”

It seemed wise advice, though Taren suspected heeding it would be a struggle, and during dinner he prompted Svein to tell reassuring tales of New Hope’s immortals. Some were straightforwardly funny, including one about the griffin kit invading the kitchens when some river fish had been delivered that made him remember the Lord Magistrate’s mutter, and others more puzzling. Packing rattling window frames with old spidren webbing was evidently effective, but how anyone had thought to try it was a mystery, and so was the greater civility of stormwings than centaurs, which seemed altogether the wrong way round. But overall, the tales had the desired effect, which was to allay the fears of his mother and aunt about their travelling to New Hope, and the prospect of immortals at Stone Mountain. Taren was generally pleased with the way Svein handled both women, at once gravely attentive and readily good-humoured. His age and military discipline were also welcome to them, and when he retired to his own rooms after dinner Taren didn’t hesitate to write a brief note to the King thanking him for his care.

He and Horgan spent the next few days showing Svein around the town and introducing him, and his satisfaction grew. But evening conversations with Sam and Var, chewing over what Svein had told them — and Lady Keladry’s letter, which had followed him by a day — were more troubled. Despite understanding abstractly what she must have meant, all of them had some difficulty digesting the idea that Countess Keladry truly saw Joren as a victim, worrying that their own lingering resentments, however understandable, would somehow incur her disapproval. Her letter seemed warm, saying that he and his siblings were very welcome to stay as long as they wished, but was otherwise brief, and Taren could imagine how busy she must be with a new fief to run as well as her army command. Most troublingly, her connection with so many gods, if long evident from the fate of Torhelm, had been given a new density and immediacy, a continuing condition in which the divine heeded her as much as she heeded the divine. Var’s tart observation that however it may have been the gods’ anger with necromancy that started their involvement, Blayce’s death had clearly not ended it, rang uncomfortably true. Taren did try to seek advice from Tover, the senior priest in the town’s Mithran temple, but found the man as unhelpful as ever, at once nonplussed by anything to do with Lady Keladry and unwilling to accept that Taren shared none of his father’s prejudices, and so prone to bleat pietudes or retreat into wilfully vague theology. Several hours of it was more than enough, and Taren decided there was nothing he could do except be more punctilious about praying to and thanking the gods — which was fine until the afternoon before they were due to depart, when a Royal Messenger clattered through the gates to deliver a package with a letter from, of all unexpected people, Queen Thayet, whom he had met only briefly during his visit to Corus, and thought kind but unfathomable.

It was brought to him at a farewell tea with his mother and aunt, as well as Svein, so many eyes were on him as he broke the seal.

 

_My Lord of Stone Mountain,_

_Given your commendable concerns with New Hope, I though you might appreciate receiving a copy of this book before encountering the effects it is having in Corus, as on everyone who reads it. The second copy is, by Countess Keladry’s request, for Svein of Hannalof, who will enjoy the whole, and the third, by my husband’s command, for your father, who won’t._

_The commentary is as admirable as the original text, if considerably more alarming, but I direct your attention first and urgently to Countess Keladry’s ‘Note on Spiritual Warfare’, which practises what it preaches. I do assure you, my lord, that every last paragraph is genuine, including the one that appears in all copies without being printed, and strongly advise you to read them in strict order. The surprise is much clearer that way._

_Incidentally, it is confirmed that the Countess is with child, bearing twins to be expected in February, and while it seems to me probable, whether the trials of that condition had any effect on the striking austerity of her prose is moot. You might in any case wish to take some appropriate gifts with you._

_His Majesty and I look forward to seeing you at my ball, and to meeting Lord Saman and Lady Varia, and wish you all safe and easy travels. Do please also convey my greetings and good wishes to your mother and aunt._

_Thayet Jian Wilima of Conté_

 

Entirely puzzled, Taren passed the letter to Saman, to read aloud, and used his belt knife to open the package, finding three handsomely bound copies of something called _The Principles of Defensive Fortification_ by one Orchan of Eredui. The title page, however, was more helpful.

 

**_The Principles of Defensive Fortification_ **

**by**

**Orchan of Eridui**

**with**

**a Commentary on Immortal Aid**

**and**

**a Note on ‘Spiritual Warfare’**

**by**

**Countess Keladry of New Hope, Clanchief Hléoburh**

 

The Countess’s use of her Scanran title as well as her Tortallan one was intriguing, and brief investigation suggested both why Thayet called the commentary terrifying, and what she meant about prose style. Opposite a passage where Orchan extolled the virtues of an abatis the Countess had remarked that _While the use of untrimmed trees is attractive, and particularly effective when petrified, basilisks can sharpen as well as create stone, giving a simple post of square section obsidian edges that will readily cut chainmail, and even plate armour if its wearer is careless_  ; and where Orchan discussed the proper proportions of alures and parapets, suggesting one foot of width for every two of height, she bluntly disagreed : _No alure should be less than six feet wide, and preferably at least eight, or those using slings from them will be as great a danger to their comrades as to the enemy ; greater width also allows better rotating volley fire by archers._ His understanding of what Svein had meant about Lady Keladry’s ruthlessness expanded, but his thoughts were interrupted by a scandalised exclamation from his mother and a bland reply from Svein.

“Expecting in February? And only married at Midsummer!”

“Indeed, my lady. And others in Corus have made that calculation. But do remember that at Beltane, when the treaty was signed and the Count and Countess were handfasted, seven gods manifested. And four stayed to dine and dance. Such consequences are traditional.”

Svein’s voice was calm but invited no demur, and to Taren’s relief his mother offered none : what his father or uncle would have made of Lady Keladry having an eight-months babe didn’t bear thinking on, but it was not an issue _he_ was going to raise with anyone. His attention returned to the book, a much more interesting matter, and he turned pages carefully until he came to the ‘Note on Spiritual Warfare’. He started to read, immediately struck by the crisp tone and phrasing, but when Var shifted to look over his shoulder he looked up to see everyone waiting on him, thought about handing the other copies round, and with a smile of apology instead started to read aloud. The ‘Prefatory Remarks’ were straightforward enough, if laced with warnings that brought sharp nods from Svein, but even with the first section of ‘Prior Facts’ tension started to build. Taren stumbled over the pronunciation of a Scanran word,  _blódbeallár_ , welcoming Svein’s correction.

“It means exactly what she says, my lord, the law of blood and fire. I heard about this from General Vanget but didn’t entirely understand.”

Taren pressed on, realising from interpolated paragraphs by Count Domitan and Sir Nealan of Queenscove — another whom Joren had frequently cursed and derided — how oddly self-effacing Countess Keladry’s account was, but with the next section, ‘Intermediate Developments’, gods began to appear. That she had received a letter from Lord Sakuyo he had known from Svein, but not that it had affirmed her “being free of any god’s touch” until Rathhausak ; and as he read on he could hear the deepening shock in his voice.

 

  1. Under varying circumstances arising from my command at New Hope during 461 I met and spoke with Lord Weiryn, the Green Lady, the Black God, the Graveyard Hag, and the Great Goddess ; and with many at New Hope became one of Lord Sakuyo’s Blessed, having heard his laugh among other High voices when shrines were dedicated. The circumstances prompting all this divine concern were (in so far as I understand them) specific to that time, and to Chaotic remnants of the Immortals War ; what has general relevance is my growing awareness of having a degree of leeway the gods would respect.



 

  1. By ‘leeway’ I do not mean indulgence. Had I done anything abhorrent to or in defiance of divine conscience my punishment would have been condign. What I do mean is that, with all due care for that conscience and my own honour, I might at need and to proper ends seek to cast the shadow of the gods upon the enemy without fear of being denied.



 

  1. I take leave here to remark that the many gods’ various senses of humour are typically taken into far too little consideration, and piety cannot in itself substitute for appreciation.



 

Svein’s huff of laughter and his mother’s squeak made him look up.

“I’m sorry if I seem impious, my ladies, but I have seen Countess Keladry speaking with Lord Weiryn and the Green Lady, and she is quite right that earnest piety has its limits. And you must concede that she speaks from more divine experience than anyone else has.”

To Taren’s surprise that won a smile from his aunt.

“Indeed, it seems we must, Commander. Countess Keladry has truly spoken with all those gods?”

“And more, my lady — besides those she has named, Lord Mithros, Lord Sakuyo, and Lady Shakith manifested when the Peace Treaty and her handfasting were blessed, and all spoke to her.” Svein shook his head. “ _To cast the shadow of the gods upon the enemy._ Literally. No wonder that Her Majesty said this book was affecting all who read it. Do please continue, my lord.”

As Taren did, more immortals were named, with interesting details. Knowing Lord Diamondflame had lived for more than ninety centuries underscored his stark warning about presuming on dragons, and that stormwings had — somehow — analysed the Scanran forces for Lady Keladry won a furrowed brow from Svein. As events reached the siege itself the what, if not the how, of that analysis became clearer, but amid the wonders what struck Taren hardest was the mention of a ballad “in Old Ogric known among immortals by its short title, the  _Song of the Surprise of the Petrified Giant who fell from the Outer Wall of the Citadel of Lord Sakuyo’s Blessed known among Mortals as New Hope and so Proving during the Great Spiral of the Timeway that Concluded the Feud of Gods and Dragons concerning the Godslain of the Godwars_ ”.

He had trouble not laughing aloud as he ploughed through the seemingly endless words, not daring to imagine what the long title must be like, but what mattered was that it was a _joke_ — and abruptly the Countess’s earlier words about gods’ senses of humour made more sense, for she had a sense of humour herself. In some part of his mind he realised that he, Sam, and Var had never thought of Lady Keladry laughing, only striving, fighting, and defending, and knew that would have to change ; a sense that deepened as the great and terrible joke she had played on King Maggur and the Scanrans was incrementally revealed. It had been possible only because gods and immortals had been _amused_ by it, not least because, although truly a joke, it had had a layered purpose at once merciful and ruthless, frightening conscripted soldiers to desert and driving coerced troops to invoke _blódbeallár_ so that it was Maggur’s loyalists, on whom his power rested, who had to make the assault, and so could be (as the Countess flatly stated) “slaughtered in the killing field of the roadway by blazebalm, pit-trap, dragonfire, and innumerable volleys”.

Her words about what it meant to use dragonfire against mortal flesh resonated with what Svein had said about the deaths that weighed on her, but his thoughts were brought up short by Sir Nealan’s remarks rooting the Countess’s mastery of spiritual warfare in the hostility she had faced as a page and squire, and asserting the connection between the traitors and bigotry against women. His voice flattened as he read them, a new clarity unfolding in his mind, and he looked up at Sam and Var.

“Summary annihilation. Lord Sakuyo said the gods didn’t interfere before Rathhausak, not that they weren’t watching carefully, or judging what they saw. But when they did act, they gave to Lady Keladry all those who had hated and slandered her without reason, that she could destroy them in all justice and with every reason. Joren was just a down payment.”

Eyes widened and his mother gasped, hand rising to her mouth, but Var only cocked her head a little as she thought.

“Maybe, Tar. But that was the elemental.”

“And two years later it was working with Lord Gainel and Lady Shakith.”

“Huh.” A slow smile crept onto Var’s face. “I like it. Just a down payment. Let’s hope the Black God told him so.”

They had speculated before about how furious Joren must have been when he understood he’d failed his Ordeal, and though in his father’s presence his mother had necessarily been all grief, she had privately been just as relieved as they were, and had equally found some pleasure in the thought of Joren’s powerless discomfiture. He met her look, promising words in private later.

“That’s quite a perspective you have, my lord.” Svein’s voice held a note of respect. “I suspect Countess Keladry would appreciate it. And I’m reminded it was she who killed Vinson of Genlith — with a shot at impossible range using a bow given her by Lord Weiryn. So perhaps he was another down payment.”

Thinking of Vinson, that made sense to Taren, who nodded and began to read again, working through statements of immortal praise for the Protector to the final ‘Observations’. They seemed straightforward at first, though the savage analysis of Maggur’s unstable rule was striking, but what followed severely expanded Taren’s understanding of just what divine jesting might mean. Lady Keladry’s evident belief that however she had been an instrument of the gods, their jest was as much on her as through her, rang true, but to think of the cost to mortals of such jesting hurt. The blows he, Sam, and Var had taken from Joren were among them, but what Lady Keladry had borne was unimaginable. The differing perspectives offered by others helped, particularly the unexpected Scanran observation that what Clanchief Hléoburh called _jest_ they would call _justice_ , but as he turned the page and saw the final, calligraphic paragraph he felt the shock like a hammerblow.

 

  1. _Lord Sakuyo, deserving as often the last word, adds :_



 

_My favourite daughter is a gem, isn’t she? My jest needed a puissant female warrior, and Keladry-chan was shining so brightly to hand — so great in spirit she was much in favour with a dozen of my brothers and sisters, and a marvellous jester in her own right, not that she usually realises it. Only gods, of course, may appreciate my jest (and hers within it) in its full magnificence, though that shouldn’t stop mortals trying, and we laugh at them still ; as you would, reader, could you see your own face at this moment, and be the better for it._

_**S.** _

 

Silently, Taren turned the book, holding it so the others could see. His voice cracked a little.

“The paragraph that appears in all copies without being printed, I presume.” He looked at Svein, whose face was pale. “Is that _–chan_ suffix a Yamani honorific, Commander?”

“No. An endearment, for children. Or so Lady Oranie told me once. And the god calls her his favourite daughter.”

“Yes. And much in favour with a dozen more.” Taren’s mind spun, and he checked the other copies, seeing the same exquisite calligraphy in all. “The same. _Everything_ she has done is divinely endorsed, with all she has said here. You were telling us, Commander, that all who were at New Hope knew it. Now everyone who can read will know it.” Another thought burned. “My father abdicated because he realised it, and that he had been standing against the gods. How will others react to such knowledge?”

“Good question, my lord.” Svein reached for the Queen’s letter, which Saman had set down on a side-table. “Huh. Her Majesty is correct that the ‘Note’ practises what it preaches. And if Lord Sakuyo’s contribution is the spearpoint, everything that leads to it gives it greater weight.” He shook his head, as if to clear it. “I have heard accounts of the siege, and the illusion, from several eye-witnesses, but nothing like this. And the immortals endorse it also. But whether that means you will have more company at New Hope, or less, I cannot say. Nor what the effects in Corus will be, beyond profound shock and great wariness.”

“No doubt. Var?”

His sister’s smile was numinous.

“It doesn’t matter, Tar, as long as _we_ go, just as soon as we can. Will you take our father his copy personally?”

Taren thought about it briefly, remembering the curt refusal of explanation when Burchard had told him of his decision.

“No. He can discuss it with himself.”

Var smiled again.

“So he can. But do please ask your messenger to go via Margaram, to read it to Uncle Henchard.”

Sam’s eyes lit up, as did Aunt Lily’s, and Taren thought his own probably had as well.

“With pleasure, Var.”


	3. Chapter Two -- Delays and Conversations

**Two : Delays and Conversations**

_Corus, December 463 – May 464 HE_

 

THE southern winter was proving mild, for a second year running, and though long days in the saddle were a challenge the journey to Corus was fascinating for all of them. Sam and Var had never left Stone Mountain before, their father having had no interest in providing costly amusement for the children of his second marriage, and Taren had only been to the capital once, when the King had summoned him to confirm his inheritance and receive his oath of loyalty. It was almost a week’s ride, following the River Petren to its confluence with the Olorun, on the trade-road built to take Stone Mountain’s ashlar and ingots, and then joining the much more crowded Great East Road. On the trade-road they had been the largest party by far, with their servants and a ten-strong guard detail, and the Stone Mountain sigil had commanded attentive service at the inns ; but on the wide artery of the Great East Road there were, even in this winter season, long caravans headed to and from from Galla, Tyra, and Tusaine, most with substantial guard companies who saw them through the risky bits of the borderlands, and no-one seemed to receive much more than curt civility from any of the busy innkeeps and ostlers.

Though more than a little preoccupied with the prospects of a festival season that drew most high-ranking nobles, Taren was kept distracted and amused by Sam’s and Var’s questions and observations. New landscapes were a pleasure to all, and though they were cautious so were new faces at the inns : merchants, who politely made themselves known and pointedly did not enquire after his father, families travelling for Midwinter, cautiously deferential to a strange noble, and even a Bazhir horse-trader, returning south with some Gallan stock. But business intruded a little. Var had been struck by the condition of the trade-road, talking to surprised carters and seeing for herself how the straining hooves of the mules and bullocks that drew the heavily laden wagons poached the surface, while the wide wheels crushed and scattered what gravel had been laid. Reserving any decision until he could properly assess costs, Taren nevertheless agreed with her that more wagons with lesser loads might travel more swiftly ; and once or twice, seeing wagons that were clearly short-teamed, he did intervene to subsidise additional draft animals, telling the carters plainly that he would not see creatures beaten for being unable to do the impossible.

On the Great East Road wider questions proliferated, provoked by the sheer variety of costumes and faces, and when Taren could not answer, one of the guards usually could. They were not the same squad his father had used as an escort, Taren wanting no silent comparisons, but all had made the journey often and knew the capital well. Watching Sam and Var soak up knowledge was a pleasure, and doing so himself rewarding, but with the time to think that riding allowed Taren was increasingly aware of just how dangerous their father’s legacy of neglect was, how skewed the view from Stone Mountain that was all they had been allowed. When he had first travelled to Corus in July he had been dazed and preoccupied by events, as well as hurrying to answer the King’s terse summons, but with greater leisure he began to see many things more clearly. In Stone Mountain, though the demands of mines and quarries for labour ought to have brought variety, darker skins and languages other than Tortallan were rare ; but the Tortall that flowed around them on the great road was a rich mix, with accents so strong and varied that Common was a helpful alternative. And where he, Sam, and Var felt instinctively wary of so much that was unknown, others seemed hardly to notice the strangeness. Playing leapfrog one day with a party of Corus merchants returning from some tradefair, Taren lost count of the languages they seemed to speak between them, and felt his mood darken.

Before Joren’s death he had thought of his father’s prejudices only as they affected his siblings — the disappointed contempt for the brown hair and eyes, and medium heights, they had all inherited from their mother, with a rigid traditionalism that had scorned her interests in the fief as much as proper lessons for Var, the very existence of the Queen’s Riders, and the upstart baseborn wanton who fouled knighthood by presuming to seek it for herself. But once Taren had so unexpectedly become the heir, and found himself alternately ignored and fiercely lectured (or hectored, where his uncle was concerned) about the purities he must maintain to preserve Stone Mountain as they thought it ought to be, an astonishing, crippling narrowness had become ever more evident. In his father’s view, the House of Conté had been debased by Queen Thayet’s foreign blood, and again by Prince Roald’s Yamani marriage — and when Taren had asked if the alliances involved did not strengthen Tortall he had been scorned for such stupidity, but not, he noticed, answered. And it was not only foreigners who were uniformly bad : Bazhir were not to be trusted, nor grubby northerners like the haMinches who were all but Scanrans, nor grasping merchants who should be left to Genlith to deal with, nor, it seemed, anyone except the noblest houses of the Book of Gold, and these days by no means all of them. Women existed only to warm beds and bear children, commoners to provide necessary labour, and servants to obey in silence ; none could or should be trusted in anything.

Taren knew better than to point out the inconsistencies with the way his father relied on Genlith and his factors, and Captain Horgan, never mind the personal servants of his chamber ; but he had begun to realise how politically extreme, and isolated, his father truly was. The lectures and diatribes always implied that Stone Mountain’s strict maintenance of tradition was not only right but normal, the proper way of things all decent Tortallans naturally supported ; but the names of those supporters were always the same few — Genlith, Runnerspring, Torhelm — while those denounced as radicals and subversives included almost everyone else, from Their Majesties down. And among those supposedly deserving only scorn were names Taren knew should give _anyone_ pause — not only very powerful nobles, like the Lords of Goldenlake and Legann, but the Lioness, who had dared to win the Dominion Jewel and end Duke Roger’s necromancy ; Master Numair, whose power as a mage could hardly be measured ; and his Godborn Wildmage wife, who was said to be able to take the shape of any animal, and converse with all. Taren did not doubt his own ignorance of much that mattered, but whatever his father and uncle said, these were not people it could be wise to call enemies.

And now he felt the truth of that ever more deeply. For anyone inheriting as he had done, still nearly three years short of his full majority and under strange circumstances, growing into his new duties would be difficult ; and for him that was capped by a wretched legacy that put Stone Mountain not only on the wrong side of politics, tainted by proximity to treason, but (he was grimly certain) on the wrong side of the gods. In the days since reading Countess Keladry’s book he had begun to trace the pattern, from her family’s Yamani connections and experience of Yaman, where she must first have encountered Lord Sakuyo, to her friendships with the Wildmage, who was Lord Weiryn’s and the Green Lady’s daughter, with the Lioness, chosen of the Great Goddess, and with the young seer she had saved in Scanra, chosen of Lady Shakith. Conversely, Genlith had bent Stone Mountain’s resources and skills to support the vilest necromancy, offending the Black God, and Torhelm had slandered Lord Mithros sufficiently blasphemously to be struck down ; nor could strident, hateful opposition to Countess Keladry’s knighthood have helped, when the God of Justice and War so strongly favoured her. All in all, Taren doubted it would have been possible for his father to act any more blindly and purely _stupidly_ than he had ; and if his resignation of Stone Mountain was as much as the fool could do to offer a clean slate, it was also profoundly an act of cowardice, refusing to face the ghastly mess that he, Taren, must somehow clear up. All he could do was pray, and he did, often, but to him the gods were as silent as they seemed eloquent to Countess Keladry.

Sam and Var noticed his dour mood, and he confessed some of its causes but held others back, not wanting to worry or distract them with concerns they could do nothing about. Sam understood enough to have some sense of the challenges, but Var refused to be less than cheerful, and had a confidence Taren wished he could share.

“What do we know, Tar? But I don’t believe the gods will punish you for anything you didn’t do yourself. Most people don’t get any answers from them. And if they’re definitely watching anywhere, it’s New Hope, so when we get there they’ll know you’re trying to do right by the fief, and everyone you can.”

“Maybe so, Var. But maybe not. I have a lot of apologies to make, not least to the gods, and no assurance they’ll do any good.”

“ _She_ says we’re welcome. Others will heed her.”

It struck Taren as richly ironic that whereas for the three of them _he_ had always been Joren, _she_ was now Countess Keladry. And wouldn’t Joren just hate that? Deep within himself he knew that, however right in defence of Stone Mountain, seeking _her_ friendship was also another way to wipe dead Joren’s eye. His half-brother’s corpse had been returned to Stone Mountain packed in salt, to be interred in the ornate family mausoleum with every possible ritual, and his father had spent _months_ fussing about the effigy, a hateful and extravagant perfection in white marble and thick gold leaf ; once his father had departed to the mountain hermitage where he now dwelt, Taren had managed not to order its defacement, but there had been moments when the desire to do so had burned in his heart. He knew he should let it go, but there were too many constant reminders of Joren’s culpability for his own predicament.

Corus itself thus came as almost a welcome challenge. Noble status allowed them to bypass wagon-trains, using the military lane from the East Gate through Prettybone and over the Kingsbridge, where their identities were asked, but much of Palace Way seemed to have been dug up, with many side-streets, and no-one was moving fast. As they crawled past a deep trench Taren saw his senior guard, Vesker, dismount briefly for an exchange with the man supervising the work, and once they were through Patten into Upmarket, and the crowds eased, he caught up and came alongside.

“Sewers and water pipes are being extended into the Lower City, my lord, and they’re pushing on until the weather turns. Seems that with the war over the King’s feeling generous, and decided he’d give his poorest subjects a present.”

The victory proclamation had specifically mentioned the courage of convict soldiers at New Hope, which usually meant purses in the offing, and there had been many of those soldiers on the casualty roll, quite a few of whom must have come from the Corus slums. Even so, Taren was surprised at such a practical and costly collective reward.

“Interesting. Thank you, Vesker. Are people happy about it?”

“Not about the delays, my lord, but I’d think so. With those icelights they’ve put up too, it’ll make a big difference.”

“The Lower City has icelights already?”

“First place they done after Palace Way, my lord. I heard tell the Lady Knight demanded it. The Countess, I should say.”

Turomot’s words about Lady Keladry demanding as well as embodying change came back to Taren, but he had no time to pursue the thought as they turned into Upmarket High and shortly the mews of the townhouse. _His_ townhouse, however odd it seemed. As a Councillor his father had been entitled to rooms at the Palace, but had always preferred his own roof — an idiosyncracy for which Taren, neither Councillor nor otherwise entitled, could only be grateful. He had met the staff when giving his oath, and found himself warmly greeted. Sam and Var were given covertly appraising looks that softened with their courtesy — they had all sworn long ago never to treat servants as _he_ did — and bags were soon unpacked, allowing them all to change from dusty road clothes.

After a visit to the Temple District to give thanks for safe travel, and demonstrate a proper heed for the gods, outfits for the Queen’s Ball were the priority, especially for Var, who had never had any genuine finery ; and on her suggestion, after consultations with Horgan and others who knew Corus, Taren had written a _very_ carefully worded letter to Lalasa Weaver, enclosing measurements, stating preferences for colours and style, and asking for advice. He had worried that his name would make him unwelcome, but the reply had been only a business-like acceptance of noble custom, with a request to call for fittings as soon as they might, so once they had all had some tea and enough food to tide them over, they set out. Given the dug-up roads, walking seemed the better option, as Vesker agreed, and if progress was again slow, it gave them time to look around. The Temple District was impressive, putting its equivalent at Stone Mountain to shame, and Taren was vaguely heartened by the simple act of prayer in such surroundings, but there was as little reply as ever, and they soon headed back into the city. Walking down Palace Way both Sam and Var were wide-eyed, and though preoccupied Taren was not immune to the fascination of window displays and human bustle, but he was also conscious of the way people registered a noble party with guards and gave way. Var saw it too, and having skipped slightly ahead made a point of waiting at one bottleneck, waving on an old woman who hesitated to come through, then thanked her with a surprised look.

Vesker’s recommended shortcut through the Daymarket proved a distraction, and Tar surrendered to the smell of bubbly pies, treating the guards as well as his siblings, as well as noting several stalls he’d like to explore ; but Var was not to be diverted from the prospect of a real ballgown and they soon found themselves outside the premises in Stuvek Street where the woman everyone agreed was the best seamstress in Tortall did her work. Taren had no idea what to expect, but was impressed ; the shop was neatly kept, there were extra mats to cope with mud from the roadworks, a clerk greeted them promptly, and finding they came by invitation found them chairs and offered tea.

“Mrs Weaver is with Her Grace of Naxen just now, but I’ll let her know you’re here, my lords, my lady. She shouldn’t be long.”

And she wasn’t. They’d barely finished the tea when a stately older woman sailed out, glancing at them with a slight frown and a half-nod as she passed, and they were asked to come through, finding themselves facing a short, dark woman with generous curves and careful eyes in an open face.

“My lord of Stone Mountain, Lord Saman, Lady Varia.” She offered a curtsey, he returned a short bow, and something flickered in her eyes. “I’m Lalasa Weaver. I have some things for you each to try.”

“You undertake men’s clothing as well, ma’am?”

“Sometimes, my lord.” Mrs Weaver’s mouth turned up a little. “I’ve sewn enough breeches and tunics in my time, however I prefer gowns.” She gave a slight smile that somehow had an edge to it. “And I’ve no objection to securing new customers, my lord. Your father did not care to patronise my business.”

Though surprised by her directness, Taren didn’t hesitate to take the opening.

“I don’t imagine he did, ma’am, given his, ah, beliefs. But besides my not sharing them, and wanting the best possible for my sister, he did in the end realise he had been mistaken about many things.”

“Did he, my lord?” Her look was guarded. “I confess I was much surprised by the news that he was stepping aside.”

“You weren’t the only one, ma’am. No-one expected it, least of all me.” Taren took a deep breath, determined to begin righting what he could. “And while he offered no proper explanation, ma’am, to me or anyone else, he did tell me that I should heed Countess Keladry, as he had never done. There’s precious little else of his advice I aim to follow, but I shall be doing that.” Another breath, seeing surprise in her eyes. “And while I know only what was said at the trial, ma’am, it’s very plain that you are owed Stone Mountain’s fullest apologies for the behaviour of my late half-brother, and for what little it may be worth, I do so apologise.” Taren offered a deeper bow, seeing Sam echo it and Var curtsy. “Joren’s treatment of you was grotesque and unpardonable, and if there is ever anything I can do to make it up to you, please do not hesitate to ask.”

She returned a curtsey, eyebrows high. “Huh. So Lady Kel was right, again.”

Taren barely caught the words spoken under her breath as she pulled a bell-cord, but within a few seconds chairs were brought in, they were invited to sit, and more tea was served, Mrs Weaver regarding him with bright eyes.

“I’m truly busy at this season, my lord, but it seems a proper conversation is in order. May I speak frankly?”

“Please do, ma’am. I doubt you can say anything of my late half-brother that each of us has not thought.”

“Then I’ll say first that that’s an apology I never expected to hear, my lord, and worth a great deal to me, so I take it as it’s meant, and I thank you for it. Your half-brother was a _ghastly_ boy, as cruel as he was smooth, and I can’t say I don’t think he got what he deserved. But there are two things, my lord. One is that his doing was none of yours, and I’ll not blame anyone for another’s deeds. My lady taught me better than that. And however awful it was at the time, all tied up on that dreadful tower with poor Jump, good came of it in the end, so I’m not repining.”

Taren felt bewildered, and could see the same confusion on Sam’s and Var’s intent faces.

“ _Good_ came of it? How so, ma’am?”

Mrs Weaver smiled, warmly. “To hear my lady tell it, more ways than anyone but the gods can count, my lord. But for myself I can say it was only the fine she was paid that meant she could help me to start my business, for one, and for another it was what happened at the trial that got the law changed so all servants are better protected. That was my lady too, of course, telling His Majesty to shape up, but as she says, if there hadn’t been a trial she couldn’t have done it.”

“Ah.” Taren swallowed, struck by the irony of the fine Joren had incurred having such effects, and adding it to the growing tally of things _he_ would have hated. “I don’t believe that tale made it to Stone Mountain, ma’am. Countess Keladry told His Majesty to _shape up_?”

She dimpled. “She did, my lord — told him to his face that what had happened made servants no better than slaves, valued in coin, not justice. I didn’t hear it myself, of course, but Her Majesty did, and told me about it later, with how the Lord Magistrate had been so cross with Squire Joren he was all for a change he’d have hated otherwise.”

Var was frowning. “But surely the Countess was only a squire herself, then, ma’am, wasn’t she?”

“She was, my lady, but she never did let anything stop her doing what she thinks right, and she still doesn’t, all gods be thanked.”

Mrs Weaver looked pious for a moment, then shook her head slightly. “But that’s another tale, my lord, and must wait on another day.” She took a breath. “What’s for today is that when I received your letter I was that surprised I asked Her Majesty about you, and she let me use the spellmirror to talk to my lady. And _she_ said she’d had one herself, offering apologies you didn’t owe and asking if you and your brother and sister could visit New Hope, so I should feel easy and do as I would.” A faint flush came to Mrs Weaver’s cheeks. “I confess I had my doubts, my lord, but I see I should have known better. My lady’s always right, for all she protests she’s not. And you’ve done handsomely today, so all’s well, but time’s pressing, and we should see about the gown for Lady Varia and the outfits for you and Lord Saman.”

Taren wouldn’t have minded talking for longer, not least because Mrs Weaver’s observation about Duke Turomot’s rage with Joren’s behaviour at his trial was resonating with some things the Lord Magistrate had said that he hadn’t quite understood at the time, but the plea of busy-ness was clearly genuine, and the clothing truly mattered. They were ushered into a further room, with cubicles for privacy, and in moments were all examining one another in outfits that were as gorgeous as they were flattering. The huge smile on Var’s face as she fingered the material of her gown was a warmth in Taren’s heart, as in Sam’s, and they were both well pleased on their own accounts with Stone Mountain tunics in finer materials and far better cuts than they had. Nodding, Mrs Weaver made some brisk tucks and pinnings, and jotted herself a note, Taren noting a grace of movement that somehow suggested muscle.

“Your instructions were clear, my lord, but some adjustments are always needed. They’ll be ready to pick up tomorrow.”

They changed back, and before they could be ushered out Taren looked Mrs Weaver in the eye.

“Thank you, ma’am, for _everything_.” She nodded, with a small smile. “And as we’re in Corus well into the new year, we’ll be back, if we may. My sister’s never had any proper lady’s clothing, and to be frank we could do with a whole wardrobe for her, good travelling clothes as well as finery. My own wardrobe’s pretty limited, too, and my brother’s.”

“Never any finery, my lady?”

She sounded scandalised.

“None, ma’am.” Var shrugged. “Our father didn’t much care about us until Joren died.”

“Well, that’s not right, my lady. Not at all. I can’t do much before the King’s Ball, my lord, I’m that busy with orders. But once the festivities are over there’ll be a lull. You come along then, and we’ll get you all properly fixed up.”

Taren agreed, then noticed a look on Var’s face and raised an eyebrow at her. She swallowed, and looked up — only just, he noticed — at Mrs Weaver.

“I don’t mean to hold you up, ma’am, but I was wondering about your self-defence classes.” Var’s words came in a rush. “Taren got me some training with a knife, but Captain Horgan, our senior man-at-arms, wouldn’t do much more with me, so I wondered if I could join one while I’m here in Corus.”

Taren could have kicked himself. Of course Mrs Weaver would have muscle, and the tale of the classes she’d started for women was one of Var’s favourites. The lady gave Var a wide smile.

“Of course you can, my lady. I’ll have a word to see who has space, and let you know tomorrow.”

 Then they were being shown out, but Taren paused as he heard Mrs Weaver’s voice sharpen in addressing a plump woman who seemed indignant at something.

“Well I’m sorry you had to wait, Mrs Dyer, but I had other business that wouldn’t. And we’ve all to put up with the mud, but it’s well worth it. Show her through, please, Dani, and I’ll be with you in a moment.”

When she turned back to them, offering farewells, he smiled at her ruefully.

“I’m sorry if we’ve caused you a difficulty, ma’am.”

“Not to fret, my lord. I’m only fitting her in as a favour to my husband anyway, but there’s no pleasing some.”

“No, though the mud must be a trial for you, while all this digging-up continues.”

“Not really, my lord. It’s just mud.” Her look sharpened. “Do you know why His Majesty’s doing it?”

Taren frowned. “A reward for the service given by the convict soldiers at New Hope, I gathered. I confess I was surprised by the … practical generosity, I suppose.”

A smile lit Mrs Weaver’s face. “And well you might be, my lord. He asked my lady what she wanted as a wedding gift, and she told him to spend whatever six months of war would cost him making a lasting difference in the Lower City. Until tomorrow, then, my lord.”

She was gone before Taren could gather his thoughts, but Sam and Var had heard, and as they walked home he drew Vesker into their conversation. In his concerns with his own relations with the King, and putative relations with Countess Keladry, Taren had not thought through _her_ relations with His Majesty, but the tale of her telling the King to _shape up_ to change the law, backed by the news of the gift she’d asked for, demanded he do so now. Mrs Weaver’s evident familiarity with Her Majesty had also struck them all, but, as Var pointed out, dress-fittings were in their own way an intimate business, and she also remembered, as he had not, that Her Majesty had sent all the women who worked at the Palace to the self-defence classes.

“I can’t be sure, Tar, but I think it all started after what the elemental of the Chamber did to Vinson. Uncle was shouting something at Aunt Lily about women being taught to resist their betters, and Tortall going to the bitches, but Briana caught me listening and sent me away so I’m not sure I got it all straight.”

Vesker coughed, and Taren looked at him enquiringly.

“Pretty much, my lady. I’ve heard tell ’Er Majesty came down very ’ard on the senior servants after she found out what had been going on, with maids being ’arassed and all, but it was a year or two later that all the women were sent to Mrs Weaver’s classes. And I’m sorry I missed that about the Lower City works being a wedding gift to the Countess, my lord. That supervisor didn’t mention it at all, but I’ll ask about this evening, unless you need me.”

The road and all the excitement of arrival having tired them all, they had every intention of an early night, so Taren nodded, and the next morning, after they’d eaten, Vesker confirmed the tale.

“All true, my lords, my lady, but only ’alf the story. The works in the Lower City are ’Is Majesty’s wedding gift to the Countess, and what she asked him for, by all accounts. ’ _Er_ Majesty’s gift is an annual scholarship for a girl to train as a knight, and it’s open to all, no matter the rank. I gather a proclamation’s been sent out to all fiefs, but it must ’ave passed us on the road.”

“It’s open to commoners?”

“It is, my lady. If you’ve the will and the skill, they said, you can try for it. There’ll be an open test sometime in the spring.” Vesker waggled a hand. “I dunno as many commoners would want, my lord, and they’d have an ’ard road, but the scholarship’s all found, I’m told, ’orse and armour and all, so there’s plenty of lesser noble ’ouses as might be interested.”

It was, Taren realised, yet more of the change Countess Keladry was bringing, seemingly to everything. His uncle’s tirades had included vicious complaints about the female pages who’d been inspired by seeing her joust to follow in her footsteps, and he remembered Var’s pleasure at the idea, but hadn’t thought about money rather than conservatism as an obstacle for such girls. Nor had Var, for it had never been cost that hemmed what she was allowed to do. But plainly _she_ had, and had acted on it, thinking of others when she could have asked for something of personal benefit. That rang a bell, and after a moment he realised it was exactly what she said about spiritual warfare, that it had better be practiced for the benefit of all, not on one’s own account — the very opposite of his father’s views.

The point was driven home by the self-defence class Mrs Weaver arranged for Var to join, held weekly in a hall behind the temple of the Great Goddess, and led by a woman who was a Provost’s Dog. He and Sam went with Var the first time, more in curiosity than anything else, and both were struck by how varied those attending were. At least half were women from the Lower City, but there were also several priestesses, a scattering of palace servants, some merchants’ wives and daughters, and a striking older woman with golden-brown skin who turned out to be the new ambassador from the Copper Isles — reminding him that the Lioness and others were absent because they were attending the new _raka_ queen’s coronation in Rajmuat. Some women were more advanced, and were set to practising with one another while the leader worked with Var and others starting out. The brisk account of male vulnerabilities made him wince, but demonstrations of how to break a man’s hold, evade a grasp, twist away, and buy yourself time to run or shout for help were compelling — as was the explanation given by the leader when they fell into conversation.

“Their Majesties were already doin’ a fair bit, my lord, sponsorin’ the temple guardians and suchlike, but it was all about other people protectin’ women. What Lal and the Lady Knight — the Countess, I mean” — she waved a hand — “it’s hard to keep up, but what they saw was how back to front that all was, and how teachin’ women to defend themselves was the better way.” She gave him a sidelong glance. “We’ve not had many nobles, though. Too rough and tumble, I s’pose.”

The question was implicit, and Taren nodded.

“I dare say you’re right, ma’am, though I’ve little experience outside my own fief. But my sister had a hard time when she was younger, from our half-brother, and we’ve no-one who could teach her this kind of thing, so I’m glad of it here.”

“Ah.” He received a crooked grin. “Good on you, then, my lord.”

“Your superiors don’t object to your doing this?”

“They did at first, my lord, but not now. It works too well, and makes our job easier.” She shrugged. “There’s always some man stupid enough to have a go, but a bite or a broken nose is hard to hide, and the last few who’ve tried it found themselves up before the magistrates real quick. They’re backin’ us too, with hard sentences. And those are the lucky ones.”

“How so, ma’am?”

“The unlucky ones are them as the Rogue gets to first. He don’t like men who hurt women, not at all, and you don’t want to know what his sentences are like.”

She broke off to correct a problem with someone’s stance, and Taren was left to wonder at the teeming implications and the extent of his own ignorance. He cautiously asked Vesker that evening, and was astonished to learn that not only was there a chief of Corus’s thieves, the man was tolerated and even respected. Vesker shrugged.

“There’ll always be thieves, my lord, and it’s better to ’ave ’em kept polite, like. And that dog was right enough that this one’s cruel ’ard on anyone who ’urts a woman.”

“You object, Vesker?”

“Not me, my lord. I don’t ’old with that sort of thing.” Vesker hesitated but went on. “I don’t mean to overstep, my lord, but there’s tales that the Countess went to see ’im last Midwinter, when Mrs Weaver was married, and that ’e went north for ’er wedding.”

“True tales?”

“I reckon so, my lord. I’m told the families of those convict soldiers serving at New ’Ope have all been welcomed there, and that Uinse, who was in on the rescue in Scanra, is Captain of the Citadel. Never met him myself, but ’e was a Corus man, right enough, before ’e got sent to the mines, so there’s surely folks she and the Rogue both know.”

The picture in Taren’s head remained irritatingly vague, for he simply did not know enough about how such an improbable friendship might work, and worried about the implications, feeling that any connection with self-confessed criminals, however slight, might rebound on him with other lords ; but when he broached it with Var that evening she was again cheerfully unconcerned, and with fair reason.

“Everyone at the class is respectful, Tar, Her Majesty supports all the classes strongly, as  _she_ does, and the temple.” Var shrugged. “No doubt Father would be furious, but he’s gone, so what do you care?”

Put like that Taren found he had no real answer, only a general unease, and decided that if Var was happy with it all, as she clearly was, he’d just have to deal with any problem as and when it arose. Besides, it wasn’t as if he didn’t have better things to do than worry about ifs and maybes. But he did cautiously seek out Sir Myles at the Palace next day, to offer a mild apology for his calculated over-reaction with the oily merchant and trail a question about the Rogue, being blandly told that of course the Protector had been to see that gentleman, as she had been about to protect Her Majesty during a visit to Jane Street for the Weavers’ wedding, and was besides insisting that the City Wardsmen install icelights that were not so popular with thieves. Such contact was, he added, a right of the Protector not a matter of noble privilege, and Taren found himself subtly reassured, though his sense of _her_ complexity had grown again, and with it a determination to find some more complete answers.

One place that might offer them, and to which they all went on their first Sunday in Corus, after visiting the temples, was the house that had been Genlith’s and was now the king’s. The ground floor had been stripped of furnishings, but its large reception rooms housed a greater treasure — two sets of icelight panels that told the tales of Haven and the rescued children, and of New Hope. Colours had somehow been set into the petrified ice, and the simple but vivid images managed to suggest far more than they actually showed. One was divided into three by a curling V : on the left Lady Keladry fought a tauros from horseback, others lying already slain while one charged her from behind ; within the V she faced a hooded figure gleaming silver ; and on the right she stood beside a great spidren, seven tauroses and a crumpled human figure lying dead before them. Being returned by the Black God was truly wonderful, but did mean dying first, and Taren wondered what such agony might teach, and whether the pain stayed fresh in memory, or faded as his mother said the pain of childbirth did. Another showed the defeat of the traitors’ attack, splashes of fiery orange tearing apart their straggling column, and was followed by the defeat of the giants, a vast stone-grey figure, missing most of its head, toppling back from the outer wall while others looked on from below and a basilisk from above. By each was a card naming what was depicted and sometimes adding other information — what sunbirds were, and, pointedly, that the killing devices and trebuchet (which if to scale had been _enormous_ ) had been made with the connivance of the traitor Genlith, in whose former house they stood.

To walk the two sets of panels in proper sequence was a moving experience, and left Taren with a keener sense of just how much Lady Keladry had endured ; of how relentlessly events had come upon her over the twenty months between the sack of Haven and her victory at New Hope. How it had aged her was visible, for in the first panels her face was more open, a little rounder, but in the last few the figure who stood over seated men at a negotiating table, faced seven radiant gods, and looked down from a high place on her fief, seemed sterner, face thinned and eyes more deeply set. He was also reminded of how young she was, only three years his senior by birthdate, but the gulf between the little he had seen and done in those years, and all she had achieved, mocked him. A sense that closeness in age mattered as much as the disparity of experience nagged at him, but despite thought and prayer, as well as several further visits to see the panels, he could never quite grasp why that might be so, nor name what eluded him.

 

* * * * *

 

Before they knew it the beginning of the Midwinter festivities was upon them, and with it the Queen’s Ball. In arranging sparring sessions for himself and Sam with members of the King’s Own, Taren had been able to show his siblings around the outer parts of the Palace complex, including tiltyard and stables, but the great hall was new to them all. The confidence bestowed by finery — Mrs Weaver having done them proud — was qualified by the sheer throng of people arriving, all in their best, but despite the loud buzz of conversation the line waiting for admission was orderly and cheerful. The Stone Mountain sigils on his and Sam’s tunics drew many curious looks, but no questions until they took their place behind a solidly built man with a slightly pocked face, who flicked a glance and turned, eyebrows rising as he took them in.

“Lord Taren?”

Taren nodded, warily.

“Imrah of Legann.”

“My lord.”

Bows were exchanged, hands shaken, and Saman and Varia properly introduced, Imrah’s gaze openly assessing. Taren might have bridled, but the Count of Legann had every right to be curious, so he schooled his features to blankness and saw Imrah grin.

“Sick of being inspected, my lord? No help for it, I’m afraid. For all the recent turnover it’s not often a fief as important as Stone Mountain gets a new lord, and never one as little known in Corus. It’ll pass.”

“So I must hope, my lord. And we have our own curiosity.”

“I bet. When did you arrive?”

“A week ago, my lord. We couldn’t leave Stone Mountain until Commander Svein was settled in.”

“Svein? Oh, Hannalof, yes. I heard the King had sent him along to you. Good choice.” Imrah’s gaze swung. “First time in the city, my lady?”

“It is, my lord.”

“And what d’you make of it all?”

“It all seems rather wonderful, my lord, with so much variety. Stone Mountain always seemed big, but I think it won’t when we go back.”

“You’re right about that, my lady.” Imrah smiled. “Wisdom as well as beauty, I see.” Var blushed, and Imrah quirked an eyebrow. “Didn’t mean to embarrass you, my lady.”

“Oh, no, my lord. I’m just not used to such compliments.”

“Really? Can’t see why not. Unless …” Imrah’s gaze intensified. “Did your father disapprove of your not being blonde?”

Var’s flush answered for her, and Imrah snorted.

“Forgive me, my lady, my lords, but count it a blessing you don’t look like Burchard. Or Joren.”

Taren found his voice. “Oh, we do, my lord, believe me.” He took a breath. “You must have known our father well?”

“Only over the Council table, and at this sort of thing. We didn’t move in the same circles otherwise.” Imrah shrugged. “I’m a traditionalist, in most things, but not a conservative of your father’s stripe. And he never forgave me for supporting Thayet, nor for cheering Alanna on when she killed Duke Roger. Both times.”

Taren blinked, parsing his history, and took a chance despite the people listening. “Our father never spoke very clearly about that sort of thing, my lord, save to, ah, condemn what he disliked, nor our uncle, and I would be glad of a chance to do so. I imagine you’re very busy, but might I — we — invite you to dinner some night?”

Imrah’s eyes narrowed for a moment before he nodded. “Of course, Lord Taren. I’m tied up for a while with some Council business from this morning, but I’ll have more time after Longnight. Send me a note and we’ll arrange something.”

Taren just managed to utter thanks before Imrah reached the door and was announced, and then it was their turn.

“Lord Taren of Stone Mountain, with Lord Saman and Lady Varia.”

The servant’s voice was stentorian, and though the great hall was already crowded _everyone_ seemed to be staring at them. Uncertainty roiled in Taren’s gut, but Imrah had waited on them, and gestured them forwards, speaking in an undertone.

“As first timers you should go to be greeted by Their Majesties, on the daïs.”

Imrah gestured, and over the milling heads Taren saw the platform at the far end of the hall where Their Majesties were speaking to a couple in exotically beautiful clothes. As they made their way through the throng he realised the woman was the Copper Isles ambassador he’d seen at the self-defence class, and as she curtsied, her husband bowing, and turned away she caught Var’s eye and smiled, offering a nod.

“Lord Taren. Be welcome to Corus and my ball.”

“Indeed.”

Taren bowed, Sam and Var echoing him.

“Thank you, Your Majesties. May I present my brother, Saman, and my sister, Varia.”

“Of course, my lord. Lord Saman, Lady Varia, it is Our pleasure to meet you, and see you take your rightful places.” The King’s eyes were keen. “Do I gather you have already met Ambassador Helimarang?”

Var swallowed, but kept her voice level. “I have, Your Majesty. We have joined the same self-defence class, at the temple of the Great Goddess.”

“Excellent.” Queen Thayet’s voice was a purr. “That was quick work, Lady Varia. Who told you of it?”

“Mrs Weaver arranged it for me, Your Majesty.”

“Ah. Isn’t Lalasa a treasure? And you’ve secured her services as well, I see.”

Var glanced at him, and he took over, swallowing himself.

“We have, Your Majesty, for which I gather we owe you thanks. Mrs Weaver told us she had consulted you and been granted use of a spellmirror.”

The Queen waved a hand. “It was nothing, my lord.”

Taren found his courage. “It was something to us, Your Majesty. Mrs Weaver had every reason to refuse my custom, but of Your grace I have been able to offer her Stone Mountain’s profound apologies, and clear that debt at least.”

The King frowned slightly. “Apologies, my lord? For what?”

“For the ghastly behaviour of my late half-brother, Your Majesty.”

“Oh, that.” The King shook his head. “Ghastly’s about right, but I told you before that neither Joren’s nor your father’s offences are on you, my lord. What’s past is past, and with all that’s happened this year we’re all rather starting anew.”

The Queen laid a hand on the King’s arm.

“True, but it was gracious of you to make such an apology, Lord Taren, and I don’t doubt Lalasa appreciated it. Even so, you shouldn’t let anyone tax you with others’ deeds.”

“Maybe so, Your Majesty, but I will _not_ be as our father was, and I’d rather make an apology uncalled for than omit one that is. I must also thank you for the copies of Countess Keladry’s astonishing book.”

The Queen’s smile was edged. “You’re welcome, my lord. How did your father take it?”

“I have yet to hear, Your Majesty, if I ever do. He has not chosen to communicate at all since his withdrawal. But I did direct my messenger to go via Margaram and read the ‘Note’ to my Uncle, so I may receive a letter from that quarter.”

Royal eyes glinted, and the King nodded. “Turomot told me about that, Lord Taren, being very complimentary about how you’d handled it. You’ve had no further trouble?”

“Only some letters, Your Majesty, that I’ve ignored.”

“Good. And ‘sire’ is fine, by the way.” The King suddenly grinned. “Countess Keladry has _very_ little time for protocol, unless it’s forced on her, so you’d best practice informality. And I’ll no doubt see you at the Council of Nobles later in the week, but you must excuse Us now while We greet others. A pleasure to meet you, Lord Saman, Lady Varia, and do remember to enjoy the ball.”

With further bows they retreated, Taren blowing out a breath echoed by his siblings. He wasn’t sure _enjoying_ was quite on his agenda, but a servitor was offering glasses of wine, another little biscuits laden with a spiced cheese, and he found himself less uncomfortable than he’d expected, managing stilted conversations with various merchants and nobles who introduced themselves and asked unsubtle questions. Ending one such exchange with a vague promise to inspect some jewellery when he had the chance, he found Sam still at his side but no Varia, and worry rose until Sam silently gestured to a niche a few yards away where she was talking to — Taren swallowed — an _enormous_ blue-skinned figure, listening politely. Sam leaned towards him, voice a mutter.

“Guild Journeyogre, um, Elimiaju, I think, Tar. Var said to bring you over when that merchant was done.”

Taren’s reassurances to his mother sounded hollow in his memory as he contemplated the giant immortal.

“Right. Did he approach her?”

“No. She saw him, and went straight over. So you can hardly do less.”

Sam gave a fraternal grin, though his own tension was evident, and Taren wondered, not for the first time, at their sister’s courage. Then again, contact with the Craftsbeings’ Guild had to start somewhere, and as they made their way across Var looked up, eyes alight.

“Elimiaju, sir, my elder brother, Lord Taren of Stone Mountain. Tar, this is Guild Journeyogre Elimiaju, a veteran of the siege and representative to the Council of Guilds.”

An ogre bow turned out to be a thing to see, and Taren hastily returned it.

“Journeyogre Elimiaju, sir. A pleasure to meet you.”

Without quite thinking about it he held out a hand, and found it gently engulfed. Could an ogre’s eyes twinkle?

“Lord of Stone Mountain.” The voice was deep but soft, as carefully controlled as the handshake. “Your sister tells me you will be heading north to New Hope in the spring, and that you hope to enlist the Guild’s services to improve safety in your mines.”

“Ah, yes on both counts, Journeyogre Elimiaju.” Words from Countess Keladry’s ‘Note’ tumbled in his mind, and he knew honesty would be the best policy. “There was bad blood between Countess Keladry and my late half-brother, I’m afraid, and I hope to set that right, as well as preventing further accidents in our mines and quarries.” Another thought struck him. “Forgive me, sir, but are you a miner yourself? I’m sorry, but I don’t know how to tell mining, farming, and fighting ogres from one another.”

Taren hoped that faint rumble was an ogre laugh, and the great blue head nodded.

“I am a farmer, as it happens, Lord Taren. The miners are in greater demand at New Hope just now, opening a new coal-mine and setting the silver-mines at Tirrsmont to rights, but that will be done before the spring. And there is no easy way to tell us apart, I’m afraid, though with fighting ogres the weaponry will make it plain enough. To ask is no shame. As to bad blood, mmm. Your half-brother was the squire the elemental of the Chamber of the Ordeal slew?”

“That’s right, sir. Joren of Stone Mountain.”

He didn’t add the curse that his mind supplied, but Elimiaju raised an eyebrow as if he sensed it.

“But you are not he, and clearly do not mourn him, so you should not worry on his account, I think. The Protector does not hold grudges against the dead, save perhaps for King Maggur and his necromancer, nor blame the innocent.” The ogre shrugged, massively. “She does not speak much of her past, but in seeking to understand her better we have learned something of this tale from Tkaa and the darkings. And I do not think the dead one, had he inherited your fief, would be seeking our aid to save mortal lives.” An ogre smile was also something to see. “Besides, Lord Taren, the Guild seeks customers, that New Hope may benefit, and however our aid in mining is sought in the north, you are the first to ask me for it here.”

“Truly, sir?” Taren was surprised. “I would have expected many to be asking.”

“Fear holds most back. And as the Protector warned me would be the case, the Council of Guilds is unsettled by my presence, as well as resentful of the monopoly on immortal work that the Protector so wisely secured for us.” A large hand waved gently. “So while it may not be possible as soon as you would wish, I will tell the Protector that Stone Mountain stands first in line for mining aid. Do you know what you most wish to have done?”

Taren let Var answer that, and found himself genuinely enjoying the exchange as she guilelessly laid out the problems that beset them, with the root causes and such remedies as she could think of. Somewhere amid the intricacies of adits, shafts, and drainage, with which the ogre seemed familiar, the rutting of the trade-road also made an appearance, and he was interested that Elimiaju seemed to think that might be fixed too, but Sam plucked his sleeve and he turned to find an aged man scrutinising him from amid a retinue.

“You’re Stone Mountain now?”

Mildly irritated at the tone, but noting the sigil, Taren bowed shortly.

“I am, my lord. And you are Nond?”

“Yes. You’re nothing like Burchard.”

“So I should hope, my lord. Or if you mean physically, I take after my mother.”

Nond blinked. “Huh. _Nothing_ like Burchard. For which we may give thanks, I dare say, however irregular his abdicating his seat. What’s he doing these days?”

“In detail I have no idea, my lord, but in general, as I understand it, praying. He has retired to a mountain hermitage.”

“So that’s true. He offered you no explanation?”

“Only to heed Countess Keladry, my lord, because the gods walk with her as they never did with him.”

Rheumy eyes sharpened. “Well, he has _that_ right, for a wonder. Never been so shocked in my life as I was by New Hope. Can’t like it, but there’s no denying it. Is it true you banished Henchard?”

“It is, my lord. He did not care to accept my rule, and could not swear a gods’ oath that he was wholly innocent of Genlith’s treason. His Grace of Wellam observed, and approved my decision.”

“Huh. Fair enough. And Henchard always was a fool. Too often in his cups as well.”

“So I though also, my lord.” Tired of the abruptness, and aware of a presence among Nond’s retinue, Taren shifted mode. “I see Sir Paxton is with you, my lord. Would you be so kind as to introduce us?”

“What? Oh, yes, if you wish. Sir Paxton, Lord Taren of Stone Mountain. Stone Mountain, Sir Paxton of Nond.”

“My lord.”

“Sir Paxton. I asked for the introduction, sir, that I might offer you Stone Mountain’s deepest apologies for the embarrassment and distress occasioned you by the conduct of your late squire. Never having trained for knighthood myself, I cannot know, but I must suppose a squire’s failure a burden. Yet there can be no blame to you, sir. Joren listened to none, and I doubt you had any support from my father.”

Paxton was clearly surprised, but nodded. “That is most gracious of you, my lord, but I cannot see that you owe me any apology. I must confess I felt the failure deeply, but as you say, Joren was … incorrigible.” He shook his head. “Never been so embarrassed as I was at that trial. And I did all I could after, but he wouldn’t listen to a word. Just ranted about La— the Countess of New Hope, and Tortall being shamed by her.”

Nond has been listening with raised eyebrows. “You repudiate your brother, my lord?”

Taren noted the vocative, and nodded, “My half-brother, my lord. And yes, utterly. I cannot yet know what of the future I will support, but I break with Stone Mountain’s past completely, and wish for as clean a slate as I can manage.”

Nond nodded heavily. “Fair enough. And it’s true you’re going to New Hope?”

“It is, my lord. I have more than one apology to make.”

“Not so sure about that, my lord, but good luck to you anyway. And you’re making a start with the ogre, I see. What are you after?”

“Beyond simple acquaintance, my lord, and understanding of the Craftsbeings’ Guild, my main concern is mine safety. The late lord of Genlith seems not to have cared much how many died if his quotas were met, but my priorities are very different.”

Nond’s eyes narrowed, but he nodded again. “Can’t fault you in that, my lord. Liegers are to be looked after, not used up. You’ll do.”

The old man began to turn away, but Taren, if not unhappy with the indication of approval, was nettled, and asked a question of his own.

“Thank you, my lord. May I ask what you make of Countess Keladry’s remarkable book?”

“That thing? Gods know. Literally.” Taren didn’t think grins were in Nond’s repertoire, but his expression might have been a rueful smile of sorts before it faded. “Can’t say I understand Lord Sakuyo at all, but I can still see him smiling at New Hope, so I dare say the book is more of the same.”

“Smiling, my lord?”

“Yes. Popped out of nowhere with all the others, the day the treaty was signed, and they _all_ spoke to her. Astonishing. Half of them kissed her forehead, but he was the only one smiling. Made me feel very odd.” A shrug. “He’s a trickster, I gather, so who knows? But New Hope says he helped us win, and I’ll not argue with _her_. Anyone with sense knows that’s a fool’s game.” He shook his head. “As to the book, well, I saw that blessed dragon and I still don’t really understand what she did, but it worked all right, so I don’t need to. What did you think?”

“That she has earned great blessings, my lord, in which all of Tortall may share, if we will.” Nond nodded. “And that the gods put _everyone_ who had reviled and opposed her where she could justly slaughter them.”

White eyebrows rose. “The traitors, you mean? In that first attack?”

“Mostly, yes, but King Maggur too. And Genlith’s son earlier, if I have that story correctly. A clean sweep.”

“Huh. Hadn’t thought of it like that. Interesting.” A frown. “Macayhill killed Genlith, though. But I take your point. They lined themselves up, and she took them all down. Shook me rigid at the time, but it’s worked out for the best. Anyway, must be getting on. You’ll be at the Council of Nobles?”

“I will, my lord.”

“I’ll introduce you, then, if you like.”

“It will be my honour, my lord.”

The old man turned away, and Taren realised they had had an audience — not only Their Majesties, poker-faced and standing with a tall man, blond and bearded, who must be Scanran, but others all around, including Elimiaju, great head slightly cocked. He met the King’s gaze, and received a nod.

“That was well handled, Lord Taren. My lord of Nond found himself much taken aback by events, as all were. And I agree the gods served up Lady Keladry’s foes to her on a platter. But allow me to introduce my new Scanran ambassador, Erik Hrothgarsson. Ambassador, Lord Taren of Stone Mountain, with his brother Lord Saman, and sister, Lady Varia.”

There were more bows and handshakes, Taren wondering at the Scanran’s urbane composure, but before he could speak Elimiaju did so.

“Allow me to correct two things that were said, Your Majesties, for it is not true that all the gods who manifested at New Hope that day spoke to the Protector, nor that only Lord Sakuyo smiled. Lady Shakith marked a moment of prophecy, but did not speak to be understood, even to young Irnai, and if the Goddess and Black God spoke, only the Protector heard.” That ogre look was reflective, Taren thought. “But the Black God did cup her cheek in blessing, for which even Quenuresh knows no precedent.”

The Scanran nodded, eyes wondering. “So Jorvik Hamrsson and Ragnar Ragnarsson told the tale, Master Elimiaju. Blessings from all the High Ones, but not speech.” Blue eyes met Taren’s. “And we too believe they delivered Clanchief Hléoburh’s enemies to her rightful wrath, my lord, Scanran and Tortallan alike. But what we have first taken from her astonishing book is twofold — her great mercy, in separating wheat from chaff, sparing all she could, and that we must repair our piety. Ragnar Ragnarsson has pushed the Council on this, and he is sponsoring shrines to Lord Sakuyo in Hamrkeng and at Somalkt. Others will follow, I deem.”

That was a thought that had occurred to Taren too, though the priest at Stone Mountain had been lest than helpful, but when he said so the King swiftly raised a hand.

“You can build any temple you like, my lord, but priests are _not_ my responsibility. Ask Archdivine Holloran, and good luck to you.”

The Queen was more tactful. “We _are_ considering a Sakuyan temple here, Lord Taren, rest assured. But be aware Lady Keladry’s book has many thinking along those lines, and there will certainly be rather more Sakuyan shrines than divines to serve them for some while.” She smiled. “You’ll find Holloran sympathetic, though, if a little … distracted. He did have to conduct a wedding with two gods in attendance.”

That was enough for Var to beg the tale, and as others were equally interested Her Majesty obliged, with occasional interjections by the King. Svein had not mentioned that Countess Keladry had shared her wedding day with three couples from among her commoners, nor that _she_ had officiated at them, Holloran merely assisting, and had roped in the King to give away one of the brides, nor any number of intriguing details that brought the whole to shimmering life as the Queen spoke. It left all in wondering good humour, and was much debated as the evening wore on, but Taren did manage some other useful conversations, making himself known to yet more nobles, greeting Mrs Weaver (in a stunning dress) and meeting her husband, and securing a promise from a senior healer to write to his mother about Stone Mountain’s needs. Before departing, well after midnight, he also delighted Var by inviting Journeyogre Elimiaju to dine with them two nights hence, and discovered to his complete surprise that ogres were vegetarian.

As it turned out, the meal with Elimiaju was the first of two that bracketed his introduction at the Council of Nobles, and afforded him far more deeply unsettling if very thought-provoking experiences. While they ate a variety of spiced dishes that seemed to please the ogre, the talk was mostly of the recalcitrance of the Council of Guilds, and the considerable volume of business _not_ being dealt with properly, if at all, while it dithered and shuffled resentfully — a process, Taren realised after a while, that Elimiaju had expected, and was observing with amusement and infinitely polite patience. What good it might do Taren had no idea, but he promised Stone Mountain’s support for the Craftsbeings’ Guild against those who wished to parcel out its immortal monopoly among themselves, receiving thanks and a shrewd look in return. After dinner, though, the subject shifted to New Hope and its Countess, and Elimiaju sat back, his hastily reinforced chair creaking.

“I do commend your intent in going there, Lord Taren, as the Protector will your care of younger siblings. And New Hope welcomes all who come in honesty and peace. But the Protector is a great wonder to all, if perhaps less of a puzzle to us than to mortals. Such as she arise but rarely, but they do arise, and our memories are long. Yet it is also true that even among her peers down the mortal ages she stands out. Many have taken a moment in time and shaped tribe or culture, with or without the help of a god. Far fewer have won such widespread respect among immortals. And one other mortal only, to our knowledge, has so ridden the Timeway as it turned, and that to lesser effect. To do all — _that_ is a new thing in the Three Realms, and widely debated, even among those who saw some of the doing.”

He drained his quart of water, accepting a refill with murmured thanks.

“Not that I understood half of what I was seeing, most of the time.” His grin was unexpectedly self-deprecating, teeth white against blue skin. “But Earfiller — that’s our bard Olimiariaju — has given us plenty to chew on. Do you know of the giant whom Var’istaan petrified during the siege?”

Taren nodded cautiously. “The one in the ballad Countess Keladry mentions in her ‘Note’?”

“Just so. Earfiller made the song of that giant’s surprise, and so drew our attention to patterns beyond the great power of Var’istaan’s rock-spell that overcame Chaos. The giant had been tainted by Uusoae, you understand, and so fell prey to King Maggur’s need. Like him, it fought to seize and destroy, seeking personal gain, while Var’istaan fought willingly, beyond duty though at the Protector’s request, to serve her and defend his own. But even as a farmer I can see that stone ran through all, from the basilisks’ part in building New Hope, above and below, to the petrified giant, the Protector’s bowshot from the height of the fin, and the fall of the overhang that slew the mortal mages. Beneath whatever gods did, stone spoke in those months and days. So did fire.” The great ogre shrugged, an oddly delicate movement. “Now whether the Timeway prompted them, or they spoke for themselves to Timeway and gods alike — _that_ is a question.”

Sam frowned, and asked for them all. “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t understand. How can stone speak? Or fire?”

“They do not speak in words, Lord Saman, but they are not therefore dumb. Father Universe and Mother Flame made them, as they made all things, and it is but a few years since those two were roused by Uusoae’s rebellion.”

That story took a while, leaving Taren wondering if his father and uncle had known it, and with renewed incredulity what idiocy could have possessed them to continue to slight the Wildmage if they had. He didn’t know if he was any the wiser as to how stone and fire might speak, or ogric bards hear them, but Elimiaju’s clear conviction that Countess Keladry had become a focus of power across all Realms demanded thought. Not for the first time he wondered if unseen powers had been moving in his own life since _he_ had perished in the Chamber of the Ordeal, and if so to what ends, but there was still nothing he could do save to continue as best he might — which meant enduring his introduction at the Council of Nobles, informing them of his uncle’s banishment (about which they were more sympathetic than he had expected), and sitting through a long and rather rambling discussion of the possible betrothal of Princess Lianne to the Crown Prince of Galla, which to most seemed more advantageous than not.

The second conversation came in the week after Longnight, when many were celebrating the successful conclusion to the year’s Ordeals, and they entertained Lord Imrah. Taren had in calculating politeness extended his invitation to the Count’s new squire, Lachran of Mindelan, but it seemed he was attending his aunt at New Hope on the strict understanding that Kel — an easy familiarity Taren, Sam, and Var all noted — would oversee his weapons training.

“All against the book of course, but Kel had her reasons to stay north this Midwinter, and Piers and Ilane theirs for wanting the family together. In any case, Kel’s a superb teacher as well as a fearsome weapons master, and she’ll not only keep young Lachran up to the mark but send him back vastly improved.”

Var looked surprised. “Isn’t she pregnant, my lord?”

“Very.” Lord Imrah grinned. “With twins, I gather. But that won’t stop her training herself, my lady, and the whole programme at New Hope is relentless. I expect you’ve heard a lot of confusing stuff about gods and the Timeway, and I dare say all true enough, in its way — but if you want to understand Kel don’t ever leave _her_ out of her own reckoning. I saw her train with Cavall and Goldenlake, and she worked harder than anyone I’ve ever seen.”

“Truly, my lord?”

“Oh yes. Talent enough for twenty, but the gods help those who help themselves, we say, and Kel’s a proof of it. People say now that she’s lucky too, and I suppose she is — but it’s luck she’s earned a dozen times over.” Lord Imrah’s level gaze was keen. “I’d say that if gods have flocked to her banner as much as immortals, it’s because she raised that banner. Just as she — no other — went out on that fin to fire at that awful trebuchet, and set off the magesblasts and dragonfire that killed so many traitors and Scanrans, and led the final sortie herself.”

Having dismissed the servants for the evening Taren refreshed their glasses himself, noting the echo of Svein’s words, and after thanking him Lord Imrah sat back.

“It’s odd, you know. Alanna was there, and Raoul, Lord Wyldon, and Vanget as well as me, never mind His Majesty, and none of us ever doubted her command.” He sipped reflectively. “You don’t. She says, and you do. I didn’t hear a single questionable order from her to anyone during the whole siege. Crisp and sure every single time, backed with unwavering courage and consistently taking the highest risks herself. Men didn’t only die for her, but dug deeper than they knew they could. Long and the short is, she’s the finest _leader_ I’ve ever seen, military or civilian.” He grinned again, disarmingly. “And just as you’re feeling all overawed and respectful, she ever so politely thwaps the back of your head, and points out something you could be doing to help someone else. Cavall says she’s the best and most terrifying education he’s ever had, and I don’t disagree.”

Then Lord Imrah sobered, and spoke as few would. Taren greatly appreciated it.

“Can’t help you with what your father wouldn’t tell you, Lord Taren. The King told me you’d asked, but only he and Kel know exactly what the elemental said about your half-brother’s death, and they’re not saying, Or not to me. But it’s clear enough from your half-brother’s trial that he genuinely believed all that rubbish about women being unfit for knighthood, and equally clear the elemental doesn’t and never has. D’you know about the pattern of Lady Knights and necromancers?”

The tale that followed was brutally stark, and new to Taren in several aspects and some details.

“Thing is, your father was there when Alanna slew Roger, both times, and refused to see what was plain. Yes, the Goddess was with her, and that blessed cat, but the fact remains that she fought and killed the strongest mage in Tortall. And did it _again_ when he managed to return from death stronger than ever. Pure common sense screamed _not_ to argue with Alanna at that point — but your father did, with your uncle. And now that same common sense, doubled and doubled again, says to tread … not softly, quite, but wisely, about Kel. She’s paid a deal more for what she has than Alanna did, and she has much more self-control and clarity of purpose than Alanna ever had then. Her rage too is far more devastating, because she can _use_ it. D’you understand that?”

Taren gave the only possible answer, met with another grin.

“Not sure I do either, to be frank. But as best I can say, mulling things I saw and the King thinks he knows, it’s not so much that the gods used Kel as that they used her rage, much as she used dragonfire, to scour something out of the Mortal Realm. And she _is_ enraged, make no mistake. Alanna knew she was breaking the rules, and had the Goddess to justify her. Kel had _nothing_ , save herself and her Yamani discipline, and she knew the rules were being broken against her. Or enforced against her, as at your brother’s trial. And with the southern lords who wouldn’t allow refugees from the war to come south — not even children threatened by a necromancer who sought them especially.”

Lord Imrah shivered unexpectedly.

“Of course King Maggur and Blayce were far more directly culpable, and if you’d been there as she denied the Maggot death-rites and fed him to the stormwings, you’d know what I’m trying to say.” He shivered again. “She wasn’t a mouthpiece for the gods, you realise? She pronounced judgement, and every Realm endorsed it — gods and immortals, Scanrans as much as Tortallans. And I swear the dead did too. She says it was Lord Sakuyo who lent her his voice, and she should know, but I heard more than one god approving what she said, fiercely. And I felt the world turn, at her command. It was …”

The silence lasted a while, and none of them dared speak until Lord Imrah shrugged.

“Say this, then. The gods said Maggur should fall for what he’d done, but Kel said he had to die, right now, and made her word good — on their behalves, certainly, but most of all in her own sheer rage. He had to die that children might live, she said, and every being who heard her — mortal, immortal, or divine — agreed, in spades.” The grin returned. “And after that she just carried on, unfailingly polite, respectful, and implacable. After seeing what she’d done _no-one_ was going to argue — not the King, or the Council of Ten when they got there, or the dragons or the gods, not that I understand that bit in the least. And again, if we all backed her, that was because she commanded us.”

Suddenly Lord Imrah laughed.

“Not even of age, and ordering the world in a dead-level voice that had everyone jumping. And a palpable care, with an equal impatience to get things _sorted_ , however seemingly intractable. It was magnificent — and very _funny_ , if you had the detachment to appreciate it. And that’s what I really meant to say, because I came to realise that … the amusement escalated. I thought it was funny when I could manage to. Nond never saw it at all, nor Disart, and the King struggled, though I think he knew he was missing something that mattered. Alanna could, more often, and Raoul, even Cavall, I think, but the immortals almost all did, and the elder ones more so — Quenuresh, and Lords Diamondflame and Rainbow, and Kawit, when she came, and Queen Barzha. But the gods most of all, I fancy. I asked Kel once if she thought they were all drunk on the irony, and she gave me a wordless hug before getting called away to something or other. I’ll never forget — but what plane was Kel operating on, that my strained thought produced such a response, eh? One where she knew the gods were so drunk on their own jokes that it was her job, as their chosen and … I want to say, friend, to see them all safely home to bed.” Imrah shook his head. “’Mother’ wasn’t such a bad nickname, after all, although ‘beloved’ would have done just as well.”

The siblings spent many subsequent evenings discussing both immortal and mortal insights, but what could anyone make of such words? In some ways it was a comfort that _everyone_ was so uncertain about Countess Keladry, at once assured of her power and at a loss to know what it meant, and Taren also found himself comforted by the reflection that, new as he was to his own duties, all were facing a world that had turned, and finding much unfamiliar. But that did not assuage his difficulties, for while he had a growing conviction that Stone Mountain had played a part beyond itself, and had a part yet to play, he had no clear sense of what it might be. Joren had served the future by dying, his father by abdicating, but what was he to do by living and ruling his fief? Co-operation with immortals was clearly mandated, by gods’ endorsement as much as royal fiat, but Elimiaju’s talk of stone and fire was beyond mortal perceptions, and how any of them stood now to the gods remained a sore puzzle, as niggling and unignorable as a loose tooth.

Nor was Archdivine Holloran much help, as Her Majesty had warned. After escorting Var to her class one day, he sought out the senior priest at the Temple of Mithros, and asked for the despatch of a younger, more flexible man than Tover, but when it came to events at New Hope Holloran only smiled and gave a priestly shrug.

“I serve Lord Mithros as best I can, my lord, and through Countess Keladry have twice had the honour of meeting Lord Weiryn and the Green Lady. The first time I knelt. _She_ offered them food they seemed happy to accept. The second time I bowed. She fed them again, and danced with him afterwards, laughing the while. The Temple has named her a fit celebrant, and is otherwise keeping its counsel until it has something sensible to say.”

But Holloran did have one piece of advice to relay from Lady Keladry, that he was still digesting — to look the gods in the eye with respect, rather than abasing oneself ; and with that Taren had to be content.

 

* * * * *

 

Resolving to do something, however firmly, did not, Taren discovered, oblige events or anyone else to prove convenable. January passed pleasantly enough, dominated by a whole series of fittings with Mrs Weaver that resulted in some additional finery for a delighted Var, and three wonderful travelling outfits, sturdy, warm, comfortable, and well-pocketed. He paid generously, and made a hefty donation to the costs of running the self-defence classes, telling Mrs Weaver that it pleased him to throw good Stone Mountain money after bad, and winning a melting smile. With the southern winter continuing mild he hoped they might be able to head north sooner than he had expected, but all plans were forestalled soon after Imbolc by news that the King, Queen, and Crown Couple would be making an immediate state visit to Yaman, with the Countess-Protector leading a Craftsbeings’ Guild delegation that would meet them there. It was dismaying, but from what Taren could gather the Yamani emperor had all but required the visit, invoking the treaty, so there was nothing to do but wait on its conclusion. Despite the harsher northern winter mail was still, apparently, getting through to New Hope, so he sent a further letter wishing the Countess well on her travels, hoping her twins had safely arrived, and indicating that he would write again when he heard of her return from Yaman.

The King was, of necessity, very busy clearing business ahead of his departure, but once it had been announced that Princess Lianne would travel to Galla in the summer to meet Crown Prince Loup Taren managed to secure an interview one evening, and went with Sam and Var. The principal issue was the problem with the guilds, and when he explained Var’s interest the King snorted laughter before waving a hand.

“No offence, Lady Varia — I’m just imagining the Guildmaster’s face. Good luck to you. But your brother’s right it’s tricky, and I think I must ask you to wait a little. The Glassblowers decided to beard Lady Keladry directly in defence of their monopoly, and deserve to be left to her tender mercies, but I _have_ created a legal problem and I’d rather not jog Turomot’s elbow just now. I also think you’d do well to reach your deal with the Craftsbeings first.”

“Very well, sire. Are you aware I’ve promised Journeyogre Elimiaju my support in the Council of Guilds?”

The King frowned. “No. Interesting. But forgive me, Lord Taren, what support might that be?”

“Anything up to and including dismissing the Miners’ Guild from Stone Mountain and recognising the Craftsbeings’ Guild instead.”

“Hoo! Well, that would set a cat among the pigeons alright. Probably better as a threat than a decision, though.”

“Surely, sire. And from what Elimiaju says the Craftsbeings wouldn’t want it until they can recruit more basilisks.”

“Huh. Also interesting. And I believe I _will_ be doing something further about the Council of Guilds, but not before I’m back from Yaman and Turomot’s had his say. Was there anything else?”

Taren took a breath, thinking Var’s suggestion was extreme even for her, but that the outcome might be well worthwhile.

“One thing, sire. We wondered if we might be permitted to address the elemental.”

The King’s gaze hardened. “Address? To say what? Did Keladry refuse to tell you what you wanted to know?”

“No, sire. I wouldn’t broach that by letter. But it is to do with Joren. We …”

He hesitated and Var’s clear voice cut in.

“We all wish to thank it for not allowing our half-brother to leave the Chamber alive once he had failed his Ordeal, sire. It would have been _awful_. And while I have thanked the gods that it is Taren and not Joren or our father who will have to approve my marriage, I would like to thank the being actually responsible.”

“Well, now.” Something else had joined irritation on the King’s face — interest, perhaps, or a deeper curiosity. “That makes sense, I suppose, and you’ve all been so punctilious about offering needless apologies I shouldn’t be surprised by a desire to offer needless thanks.”

“Needless for whom, sire? We felt Joren’s fists, and we would have been in his power, not you.”

“Ouch.” The King’s expression progressed to quizzical. “True, Lady Varia, but Joren caused me plenty of trouble, just the same. You realise the elemental doesn’t always answer?”

“That is its privilege, sire, which it cannot exercise if we cannot address it first.”

“Also true. And a point I can hear someone else making.” He shook his head a little. “You and Keladry are going to have an interesting time when you meet. Alright, but we do it now. Come on.”

That was not what any of them had expected, but they found themselves swept out with the King, guards falling in behind. At the door of the chapel that housed the Chamber the King told the guards to wait, and ushered them into a bare space dominated by a sundisc above an altar and a pair of dull metal doors in the further wall, closing the outer doors behind him and leaning against the sidewall.

“We shan’t enter the Chamber, but pages test themselves by putting their hands on the doors. I warn you, though, that you might not like the results if it decides to test you.”

“Courtesy is worth the risk, sire.” Var was still taking the lead. “How should we address it?”

“It is the Lord of the Chamber.”

“Thank you, sire.”

Var didn’t hesitate in walking forward, and Taren and Sam necessarily flanked her. She did glance at each of them briefly, and Taren felt his mouth dry as they all reached out to lay their palms on the metal. It was cold to the touch, and he had an immediate sense of a distant and inhuman curiosity that sharpened as Var spoke for them all.

“We greet you, Lord of the Chamber.”

_You are not squires._

The voice was an icy whisper resonating in Taren’s head, and from the way Var and Sam stiffened he knew they had all heard it. But Var’s voice stayed level and calm.

“We are not, my lord. My brothers are Taren and Saman of Stone Mountain, and I am Varia. We wanted to thank you for not allowing our half-brother Joren to survive your Ordeal that he failed, and for whatever you said to our father that made him withdraw from the world. Your decisions blessed us, and we are grateful.”

The silence stretched, and after a moment Taren glanced at Varia, wondering if they should quit while they were ahead, and withdraw.

_Wait._

The sense of someone rummaging through his memories intensified, then ebbed again.

_The images of you from his head did not make you easy to recognise. He saw much amiss._

Taren heard no question, but the King’s voice came from behind them.

“Because I thought it the Protector’s right to decide whom she told, Lord of the Chamber. And her privilege to tell these, should she so wish.”

 _You grow wiser, Jonathan of Conté. Yet these children are sincere._ The whisper somehow shifted in tone, accommodating surprise. _I have never before been thanked for being the instrument of a death. What is it you wish of me, lords and lady of Stone Mountain?_

Taren found his voice, and truth rising. “I have no name for it, Lord of the Chamber, but I prayed for Joren’s death, and have thanked the gods for it. I felt I had to thank you also, who answered my prayer. I did my best to protect my brother and sister when we were all the children you name us, but I could not have done so as an adult, had Joren lived. I know that to hope for the death of kin is wrong, but I cannot repent it, and will accept whatever punishment I am due.”

_Punishment? I doubt the gods will care, and I cannot, nor would were it otherwise. And your minds are cleaner by far than that of your half-brother, for you wish none harm without true cause._

That Taren would have to think about, but a more urgent question burned.

“Did the gods ask his death of you, Lord of the Chamber?”

 _No._ Was that indignation?  _My decisions are my own. Why do you ask?_

“When I knew you had worked with Lady Shakith and Lord Gainel to help destroy the necromancer, and heard how, uh, the Protector had been given her enemies to slaughter, in the siege, I thought Joren might have been a down payment — a death in earnest of what she was owed.”

Taren wasn’t sure how long this silence lasted, but it seemed interminable.

 _That is beyond my knowledge, Lord of Stone Mountain, but not, I think, a foolish surmise. All gods loathe necromancy, and to give she who became the Protector that quest seemed straightforward at the time. But gods are ever prone to secrecy, and Sakuyo was deeper in this than I knew, so it may be I served a purpose beyond my own._ There was something that felt like a shrug. _It is no matter to me, and I did not think of your and your siblings’ fates when I accepted Joren’s death. I can no more forgive than regret, but you may tell the Protector that I have no objection to your knowing why Joren died, nor what so sickened your father._ Tone shifted again. _I have never thanked anyone either, but I thank you all. Your concern for me is very mortal, and so misconceived, but not, I find, unwelcome._ And again. _You did well to bring them, Jonathan of Conté. I am still thinking on the question you asked. Come to me again before you depart for Yaman._

How Taren knew this silence was final he had no idea, but Sam and Var were equally swift to drop their hands, and echoed his bow before turning away. The King shook his head, but not in negation, and there was respect in his eyes.

“Very mortal and so misconceived. Perfect. Do talk to Keladry about that one, and your idea about Joren. She’ll appreciate it. And be aware I shall tell Lord Padraig of your conversation and the elemental’s debut thanks, as is proper. Now, Thayet will be wondering where I’ve got to.”

It seemed only an eyeblink before they were alone again to make their way home, wondering and oddly light of heart, if deeply reflective. Taren couldn’t say his conjecture about Joren’s death had been confirmed, but it hadn’t been rejected, and Var’s relaxation in the days that followed was a boon though his own thoughts churned. Quite why it mattered he wasn’t sure, but the way the elemental had said ‘Protector’ and the King’s omission of any other title stuck with him, and he found himself pondering her variety of address. ‘Countess-Protector’ was the term routinely used in official statements, though notably not by almost anyone else. Many of the old nobility referred to the woman obsessing all minds as ‘New Hope’, as Nond did, but newer nobles usually preferred ‘Countess Keladry’ or just ‘the Countess’, there being only one who could be meant. Among merchants and wealthier artisans she might be so, but ‘Protector’ was also used, and both among servants and in the Lower City it was standard. After Midwinter Taren had made a point of visiting various Protector’s Maids’ shops with Sam and Var, to make purchases and ask politely how the scheme worked at the business end — efforts rewarded with interesting information but also a realisation that among those who had been to New Hope she was almost always the more familiar ‘Lady Kel’, though to outsiders, generously defined, always the Protector. And like the elemental, Elimiaju and other immortals were also consistent users of that title — or at least, those quoted in the Countess’s ‘Note’ and all he’d managed to speak with had done so : some brusque centaurs from the Royal Forest who’d come to the Palace stables on business of their herds, and, more alarmingly, a group of spidrens, now under treaty, who were also laired in the Forest and came to deliver old webbing and furs in return for, of all things, cheese.

He, Sam, and Var encountered them only because some days after their meeting His Majesty sent them an invitation to do so, blandly remarking that they’d have to deal with spidrens at New Hope and should get into practice. Whether it was reward or punishment, or both, Taren wasn’t sure, but they didn’t hesitate to accept. On the day, the King was not himself present and the palace cooks who brought the rounds of cheese looked distinctly unhappy, but soldiers of the King’s Own superintending were at ease, and remained so even when the band of immortals emerged warily from the wood-eaves. Never having seen a spidren before, let alone spoken to one, the siblings found themselves more than a little horrified by steel teeth and bristling legs, but their nervous bows and curtsey were returned with a dipping movement, and the spidren leader — one Macarran — added a disarmingly wry smile.

“We fear you and your weapons, mortal, as you fear us and our webs. Yet we are glad to meet you, for few mortals have yet proven willing or able to set old fears aside on this new path Quenuresh and the Protector have shaped for all.”

Finding his prepared speech driven from his head, Taren asked the first question that occurred to him. “Do you know Quenuresh, Macarran?”

“We met in the Divine Realms, some centuries back, but not since. Why do you ask?”

“Ah, because we — my siblings and I — will be going to New Hope. And, er, the Protector says in her book that Quenuresh’s mastery of illusion was critical to the victory, so I, we, wondered what she was like.”

“Big, mostly. We grow with age, and Quenuresh is eldest.” Macarran frowned. “Do you have the Protector’s book? We have heard of it, and would be glad to know more.”

Taren had not had it with him, but as the soldiers of the Own were also interested it had been the work of a moment to despatch one with an authorisation, and Taren had shortly found himself reading the ‘Note’ aloud for the second time, to a much stranger audience. Neither Macarran nor any other spidren had much to say about it, save some hissing laughter at Lord Diamondflame’s warning about not presuming on dragons, and a more pointed observation of the final paragraph, that not even a trickster-god would do such a thing unless he wanted something from it, however inscrutable his purpose ; but they were indeed glad to know the ‘Note’ in proper detail, and said they would pass word that the Lord of Stone Mountain had shown courtesy, and should be shown it in return, which Taren found more heartening than he could quite explain. The Ownsmen who listened, though, were all veterans of the siege, and having been joined by their commander, Ettenor of Aili, and other men who were off duty, had any number of observations to ponder. None, interestingly, were in any way scornful of the Scanrans, whose courage during the siege and cheerful demeanour in the long weeks afterwards seemed to have impressed all ; and while the whole business of the gods’ involvement and Countess Keladry’s notions of the leeway granted her produced uneasy shrugs, reminiscences added a considerable amount of new detail. Imrah’s words about outstanding leadership were strongly borne out, with tales of a quiet word here, a sharper rebuke there, and an uncanny ability to inspire confidence even when things looked hopeless, which they had ; Ettenor also had things to say about the sally that had ended it, and the stormwing queen’s execution — his word — of King Maggur, that went considerably beyond the official account.

What really astonished Taren, though, was the tale of clearing corpses from the roadway and moat — an utter grotesquerie of bodies slashed, pierced, burned, and trampled, rising and swaying away to fiercely trilling mage music, with severed limbs, spilled guts, and detached heads tumbling among them, until all had formed one vast heap that a single arrow had (somehow) incinerated to nothing in mere moments. Despite Commander Svein’s warning about the scale of the slaughter weighing on Countess Keladry, Taren found he had assumed that dragonfire incinerated bodies wholesale, and had quite omitted to realise that the consequences of a failed assault had to be cleared, as swiftly as possible, before life could go on. Thoughts of his father’s obsession with Joren’s monument circled in his mind. And there was again an insistence on _her_ personal responsibility for getting it done so strangely and efficiently, forestalling the grim, slow labour others had begun with commands to the mages to use the Sorcerer’s Dance, and a ruthless drive that saw the task completed in one interminable afternoon and evening. Ettenor, whose Uncle Harailt had been one of the mages involved, remarked the intense relief of Duke Baird, the Lioness, and other healers, who had feared disease and worse as rot set in, but a wholly different perspective was offered by Macarran.

All the spidrens had listened with interest, and after Ettenor’s comment one asked about the absence of stormwings, being reminded they were not then present, having departed with Maggur’s head the afternoon before ; Macarran nodded, adding to more spidren hissing that by all accounts, however improbable, the Protector was weaning the Stone Tree Nation off playing with corpses, then looked thoughtful.

“The one who would most like this dance of the dead is the Black God’s daughter, and we had word from the north that she and Dabeyoun visited New Hope at summer’s end. It is said Dabeyoun agreed to guard the graveyard against necromancy, a new path for him, but perhaps this dance, beyond its efficiency, was a payment for such service.”

After a moment it was Var — inevitably — who asked the question.

“Forgive my ignorance, Master Macarran, sir, but who is Dabeyoun?”

Teeth glinted in a spidren grin.

“I claim no title, mortal Varia. Macarran is name enough in this realm. And Dabeyoun is the Graveyard Hag’s hyena, a trickster of death in his own right. You will find his image on her shrines, in Carthak and elsewhere, but we do not know of him consorting with any mortal before now.” Taren didn’t think spidrens could shrug, but Macarran’s tilt of the head might have been an equivalent. “It may not be true, for all tales from the north have been fantastical, however most have proven accurate, but the Protector has seen the Black God’s face, that he does not show, so it cannot be discounted either, and more than a thousand dancing corpses, with giants among them, might explain much.”

To spidrens, maybe, Taren thought, feeling more baffled than ever, and the siblings’ subsequent discussions went nowhere, but the day had one very pleasing consequence in making them welcome among the men of the Own. With an open-ended wait before they could head north he had considered returning to Stone Mountain, but an exchange of letters with Commander Svein and his mother persuaded him it was unnecessary, and Corus did offer opportunities not available there, including a real programme of training for him and Sam. The Ownsmen welcomed them for regular sparring sessions that saw their competence rapidly expand beyond the basics Captain Horgan had drummed in, and though Var, who often came to watch, had no interest in learning the sword, she did extend her training from the self-defence classes to include sessions with one of the Shang who helped train pages.

That in turn provided a further welcome set of contacts. After the King’s warning Taren was not surprised to be approached by Lord Padraig haMinch, the Training Master, who did want to confirm the elemental’s words, offering wry congratulations on eliciting its thanks, but was more immediately concerned to borrow Countess Keladry’s book.

“The copies that came south before Midwinter went like lightning, my lord, and for all there’s officially three in the Palace Library actually laying hands on one is another matter. A second shipment’s due from the City of the Gods, I’m told, but they’re still snowed in and will be for a while yet. I’ve read His Majesty’s personal copy, but he won’t let it out of his chambers for love nor money. Thing is, though, the second years are just reading Orchan, so I was wanting Kel’s commentary.”

“Not the ‘Note’, my lord?”

“Gods, no.” Lord Padraig shuddered gently. “Wouldn’t do to give them too many ideas at once. Kel says that’s for commanders, and she’s right. But with Tkaa away in Rajmuat we’ve no immortal teachers just now, so the commentary would serve more than one purpose.”

Sharply aware of those simple ‘Kel’s, Taren thought agreeing would be wise as well as polite, and in consequence he, Sam, and Var found themselves twice invited to dine at Lord Padraig’s high table — interesting in itself, and on the second occasion, in March, very much so, as a further guest was Lord Wyldon, resident at the Palace in support of Prince Liam and His Grace of Naxen since Their Majesties’ departure, but hitherto unseen. The initial meeting was awkward, each of them surprised by the other’s attempt to apologise for Joren, but then Lord Wyldon gave an austere smile.

“I believe both of us err, Lord Taren. You bear no blame whatever, and while I do, having misjudged your half-brother almost as badly as I did Lady Keladry, it is not you to whom my debt is owed, but her. And she has forgiven me my errors, so let us both consider happier things.”

In the pages’ hall, with many ears listening, Taren did so, but invited Lord Wyldon to dine the following week, and some puzzles became clearer. He was nervous beforehand, the lord of Cavall having a reputation for severity compounded by his scarred face, as well as for austere dedication to duty, but the conversation while they ate was of Stone Mountain and the changes he had made, Sam and Var contributing, and when they shifted to more comfortable seating afterwards Lord Wyldon made his approval clear.

“It sounds as if you are doing very well indeed, Lord Taren, and I do commend your new policies. Your involvement is also welcome news, Lady Varia, however unexpected a turn in Stone Mountain history. But that is rather the point, I imagine — to do as your father, uncle, and half-brother would never have done.”

Taren nodded. “Indeed, my lord, and repudiating them matters in many ways. But I would not prevent Varia from doing anything lawful she wished to do. As children we all felt Joren’s hand often enough, but she was his victim of choice, and Saman and I were not always there to intervene.”

“You both did all you could, Tar.” Var shrugged. “And _he_ wasn’t around much once he became a squire.”

“Mmm.” Lord Wyldon looked troubled. “Forgive me, Lady Varia, but did his bullying worsen once Keladry was enrolled as a page? She started in 452, so you would have been … four, I think.”

“That’s right, my lord. I was born in 448. And yes, a bit, because he was _always_ angry then, but Joren hated all of us anyway, and our mother. The elemental said the images of us in his mind were distorted, which is no surprise.” Var’s smile did not reach her eyes. “But I learned to stay out of his way soon enough, and knowing he couldn’t beat Lady Keladry no matter how often he fought her was a joy, in its own way.”

“The _elemental_ said?”

The explanation took a while.

“I had not been told of this, but I must commend your courtesy, however odd the circumstances. And to have the elemental’s thanks … Gods, but Keladry was far-sighted.” The older man shook his head ruefully. “And how very blind I was. Joren fooled me completely, I’m afraid, for I thought him what he seemed, though the evidence that he was otherwise was staring me in the face. Keladry asked me once if the chivalry of three older pages fighting one younger one had ever occurred to me, and I was ashamed to realise that it hadn’t. It’s no excuse, but having her face a hard time suited me then, because I thought it would deter her, and I supposed him to share my beliefs that women should be protected, and were unfit for knighthood. That he _liked_ being violent towards her, and all women, as he obviously was to you, my lady, never occurred to me then, nor that he had no understanding at all of chivalry.”

There was a thoughtful pause,

“If I may ask, my lord, what changed your mind?”

“Keladry herself, for the most part, Lord Saman. She worked so _hard_ , and was so evidently brave. Do you know about her fear of heights? One of her brothers had instilled it with some childhood mischief, and when I realised it I thought it might be the weakness that would let me dismiss her honourably. But as I watched her overcome it I began to see how deep her courage ran, and how strong her will had to be. That set me thinking properly, even before the criminal assault on Miss Isran as was, Mrs Weaver now, with the revelations of Joren’s trial and that appalling business with Sir Voelden trying to run her through at the tilt. It angers me yet.”

Taren spoke cautiously, mind spinning. “We know he did so, my lord, but not how Joren was involved.”

“He persuaded Sir Voelden to it by paying his debts, Lord Taren. I only learned that later, but it was obvious during the progress that he was inciting knights to challenge her, and was increasingly enraged when she beat them, almost to a man.” An unexpected smile lit the austere face. “Being unable to unseat her myself was a shock, too. Goldenlake taught her very well, and he’s the only knight I don’t care to joust with if I can avoid it. But by then Keladry was showing her capacities of command, and even I was beginning to realise we would need her skills badly.”

A memory glimmered in Taren’s mind. “Can you tell us of her encounter with bandits as a page, my lord? We heard of it, but never in detail. Somewhere in the east, if I recall right.”

“Quite right, Lord Taren. Some broken country in the Drell badlands, where I held the summer camp in 454. The local army commander said it was clear of bandits, but it turned out the fool had taken bribes to let them alone, and some of the pages ran into a group. It might have been a disaster, and I confess my heart was in my mouth when the alarm came in, but by the grace of the gods — and I mean that literally — Keladry was with them, and took charge when the older pages who should have done so froze.” Lord Wyldon’s eyes were distant for a moment. “I didn’t see it, of course, but from what we put together after debriefing them, it was clear she had weapons skills I hadn’t appreciated. The work she was doing with her glaive in her own time meant she could use a spear as a polearm, and after gutting the leader she got the pages up a cliff path to a cave where they could shelter. I’ll never forget it. Her lingering fear of heights made her very pale coming back down, and I foolishly thought it was sight of the corpses that was distressing her until Owen put me right. Jesslaw, that is. I made some disparaging comment, and he laid into me, explaining what had happened and that only Keladry’s quick orders and steady hands had saved them.” A smile glimmered. “That was the first time I heard anyone describe her command voice, and though I was unwilling to credit it then, Owen had it exactly right. I’ve heard it often enough since.”

“She says, and you do?”

“Just so, and no delays. Who told you that?”

“My lord of Legann.”

“Ah. Yes, he heard it at the siege, as we all did.”

“He also said something I didn’t understand, my lord, about Countess Keladry’s command of everyone being funny, in a way most mortals had not understood, but he thought you had. And the gods most of all.”

“Funny?” Lord Wyldon frowned. “I wouldn’t say that, but Keladry will insist that the gods found events so.”

Sam leaned forward. “She says that in her book, too, my lord, about her trick on the Scanrans being a divine jest. But Lord Imrah was talking of afterwards, and everyone, I don’t know, tip-toeing around her when she wasn’t yet of age.”

“Well, that’s true enough, Lord Saman. She surely drove the peace, as she ended the war, and I dare say there was a certain humour in seeing Councillors who’d rather disdained her before hanging on her every word. The Scanrans too, come to that. But I’d got used to it by then, frankly, receiving her reports, with one astonishment after another. Mmm. I believe I know what Legann meant, though. There _is_ an incongruity between her age and her power, and it’s no use pretending otherwise, so one might see the humour of it. Vanget did. Did Legann tell you I consider her an invaluable education?”

“He did, my lord.”

“Well, it’s the same thing, I suspect. I was her Training Master, and she’s kind enough to say I taught her well, but the truth is she taught me far better, and more far-reachingly. The page to whom I most objected, to the point of dishonour, turned out to be the finest knight I have ever known, as well as the most able commander in several generations, and however galling it was to realise it there’s surely a jest of sorts in that.” Lord Wyldon shrugged slightly. “You might do better asking Jesslaw, if you meet him, and can overlook his grammar. He says Keladry always catches us out on what he calls our own silly assumptions, and seems to think that applies to immortals as well, and even gods. It may seem impious, but I tend to think he has a point. Certainly, if you find something that Keladry — or anyone — has said or done confusing, the first step is to ask what you’ve been assuming that you shouldn’t.”

After that talk broadened a little before the evening ended with Taren canvassing Svein’s tale of Rogal. Lord Wyldon confirmed it in full, but pleaded early business on the morrow, and though they regretted his swift departure all of them found his advice helpful ; though it was again Var who applied it most bluntly.

“I’m not sure what assumptions Sam’s been making, Tar, but you’ve been thinking everyone will blame you because of _him_ and father, when they don’t at all, and most seem pleased you’re nothing like either. Even the elemental. And I’ve been thinking I needed to be more like _her_ , somehow, with self-defence and Shang techniques, but I can’t be. The classes are useful, and knowing I can defend myself better gives me confidence, but I’m much more interested in mining and working with the immortals than I am in fighting, and that’s what I should pursue.”

Sam grinned. “Right you are, Var. Where I’ve been wrong, I think, is supposing I can’t ever be a real fighter because it’s too late to go for knight training, and Father was always so scornful of the army, but none of those Ownsmen are knights, and they’ve taught me a lot.”

Taren stared at his brother. “Is that what you want, Sam? To join the Own?”

“I don’t think so, Tar. I want to help at Stone Mountain, not be off somewhere else. But I do want to learn all I can — different weapons, and styles. It’s satisfying in itself, not just so I can prove Father wrong. I think I’d like to learn other languages, too. Scanran, for starters.”

And so they set about it, as March ran out and spring blossom brightened the trees. Lord Padraig had no problem with them all joining the pages in Scanran classes, supplemented by some private tuition, and there was a side benefit in that they made what might well prove useful contacts. The Miners’ Guild was out-of-bounds, but Elimiaju was always happy to see Var, and though the capital district was not mining country, Lord Wyldon put them on to a Master Armourer in the city who kept a forge, and if surprised to be asked soon expressed approval of Var’s knowledge and desire to learn more. For Taren himself time hung rather heavier, until he discovered the riches of the Palace Library, and with it a new consciousness of one more thing in which Stone Mountain was lacking. Thereafter he combined days of study, parsing Scanran or reading histories of Tortall and neighbouring lands, with forays to bookshops, buying sufficiently to make him a very welcome presence and gleaning recommendations to supplement his studies.

There was also an object lesson in political regency available, in watching how Prince Liam, His Grace of Naxen, and Lord Wyldon were dealing with matters in Their Majesties’ absence. Some cases were firmly shelved to await the royal return, others promptly dealt with, one way or another, and on one memorable occasion a seemingly routine request by a minor southern noble to increase his armed retinue, as a defence against bandits, was deftly exposed by Lord Wyldon as an attempt to intimidate a neighbouring lord with whom he had a boundary dispute. Attendance at court sessions was also an education, not least in that a pair of griffins now routinely flanked the witness box, silently enforcing truth, and all the sitting magistrates reacted severely to any indication whatever that anyone was seeking to lie. It was, Taren gathered, the Wildmage who had arranged it, but Countess Keladry who had discovered that griffins actually liked sitting in courts, when she had used the pair at New Hope during her enquiry into Captain Rogal’s responsibility for Sir Merric’s death. The immortals’ guerdon for their service was bowed thanks and fresh fish, but there was a further aspect in their delivery of moulted feathers, which went to army bowyers — and the Ownsmen were happy to show him and Sam why griffin-fletched arrows were well worth having available.

The siblings also spent days exploring the city together, walking the circuit of the walls, visiting every temple, and seeing for themselves just what a difference the King’s wedding gift and icelights had made in the Lower City. The latter led Taren to recall his determination, and seek out Elimiaju to place a definite order for Stone Mountain, though it would take a while, icelights being one Guild product everyone wanted. The delay, Elimiaju explained, was in basilisk time, for their abilities were essential not only to icelights but also to the petrified spidren webbing the army and many sea-captains wanted, as well as to mining and other pressing work, but Taren’s order was at least on the waiting list. Exploring deeper into the Lower City, he also found a Protector’s Maid who did portraits and other artwork, and commissioned a drawing of the three of them sitting together, to send to their mother with their birthday gift of fine basilisk stoneware. Tipping the Maid generously for her prompt execution of it, he was astonished when she demurred.

“T’ain’t needful, me lord, and I ’eard you gave a lot to Lal for the classes.”

“It may not be needful, ma’am, but you do very fine work, and swiftly. I’d not be thought ungrateful. Besides, I’m sure you can find a better use for it than sitting in a goldmiths’ vault.”

“Well, if you insists, me lord. Thank ye kindly. And maybe you’ll take something else, so’s we’re a bit squarer.”

She gestured at the many small drawings hanging on the walls of her shop, and though Taren was doubtful something caught Var’s eye.

“Is this Countess Keladry, ma’am?”

The Maid went over, and nodded. “Yes ’tis, me lady. I went with Lal and the others to ’er weddin’, and that’s ’er with ’er ’usband, when they was receivin’ gifts before the ceremony. I’ve some others too, if you’ll wait a moment.”

The portfolio she produced was breathtaking, though all were sketches and clearly done swiftly. Her commentary made every one of intent interest to them all, but Taren restricted himself to three, besides the miniature Var had seen, and despite protests insisted on paying properly, as well as adding to his tip. One showed the Countess on her own, a quizzical look on her face as she peered at a small box in her hand, and a second was of her with a fair-haired boy the Maid said was her adopted son, Tobeis ; the largest was a panorama of the wedding, dense crowds in the foreground dwarfed by the vast shape of Lord Diamondflame, Their Majesties and a phalanx of nobles to one side, a large group of immortals on the other, and behind bride and groom the antlered figure of Lord Weiryn beside the Green Lady, flanked by hounds reaching to their shoulders, whom the Maid identified as the lead couple of the Wild Hunt. Sketch or no, all visible faces were vividly alive, the happy wonder of the occasion evident ; there was even a sense of divine benison in the rendering of the gods, smiling as they bore witness. Once it had been framed, Taren hung it in a reception room of the townhouse, and was amused to see that the servants were as interested as anyone, and often paused as they passed it to stare, and sigh amazement.

After watching them for a few days Taren took the framed image and went to the Weavers’ Guild in Jane Street, asking for the only ranking member he knew, Mrs Weaver’s husband Tomas. It took a while for the message to pass, but when the man appeared, puzzlement in his eyes, Taren showed him the drawing, receiving an appreciative nod, and enquired what a tapestry version to fit the great hall at Stone Mountain might cost. The answer, even for him, was eye-watering, and the time involved very lengthy ; things he’d heard spun into an idea in his head.

“Tell me, Journeyman Weaver, would I be right to think your guild — and I don’t mean you personally — owes Countess Keladry some thanks? Her Majesty yet recalls the feast here, at your wedding.”

“Certainly, my lord. Which has what to do with the price of peas in Persopolis?”

Taren grinned. “I was wondering what that price and delivery date might be if I included a second copy, of a size you who have been to New Hope deemed appropriate, for the Weavers’ to gift to the Protector.”

Tomas Weaver’s eyes showed his appreciation, and after a moment of calculation his face broke into a wide grin.

“What an interesting proposal, my lord. Lal’s been watching your purchases from the other Maids with approval, but this’ll tickle her pink. She’ll want one herself.”

“Add a third by all means, if it is the same size as the sketch.”

“By no means, my lord. That one will be on me. But I’m ahead of myself. This is business for the Guildmaster.”

That gentleman not being foolish, a deal was soon agreed, and Taren felt he gained some more ground by insisting that both the Weavers and the Maid who’d drawn the original be consulted about colours. The extracted sketch was carefully traced, and he happily paid a sufficiently large deposit that no-one could think him anything but deadly serious ; re-hanging the sketch he explained to Sam and Var what he’d done, and was rewarded with warm hugs that left him thoughtful. For him the real value of the drawing was its embodiment of his father’s words about Countess Keladry walking with the gods. She might in this case be standing with them, but if the Maid had caught their expressions rightly, which he thought she probably had, Lord Imrah had been right to speak of divine friendship. Even the hounds of the Hunt looked benign in their regard, and as much might be said of immortals : Lord Diamondflame’s face wasn’t shown, but the curved neck and angled head indicated the great dragon’s attention, and others also seemed intent — ogres, basilisks, a huge spidren who must be Quenuresh, and stormwings perched on rooves. The Countess herself, in three-quarter profile, looked transcendently happy, gaze locked with her groom’s ; whether _that_ could be caught in threads was moot, and Taren found himself wondering, not for the first time but more intently than before, what all the divine attention meant to _her_. It must surely have been as disruptive for its recipient as for everyone else, and the thought was abruptly given a new and intense weight when, just after the ides of April, Their Majesties and the Crown Couple returned from Yaman.

They arrived very late in the evening, riding from Port Caynn, and by first light, when Taren rose, Vesker reported the city already thick with rumour of yet more extraordinary events involving the Protector. Whether she had stopped a revolution in Yaman, or started one, was less than clear, but someone had done something wicked enough to enrage her, and paid the mortal price such a fool might expect. And she had once again called down many gods, and summoned many immortals, in righteous vengeance, and generally turned Yaman as upside-down as she already had Tortall and Scanra, with results just as marvellous and beneficial, however no-one quite knew how, or why. That the divine name most prominent was that of Lord Sakuyo was no surprise, but Lords Mithros and Weiryn were in there too, with the Graveyard Hag and her hyena, and Var earned herself some very curious and respectful looks from the chattering servants by earnestly remarking that she expected that was Lord Dabeyoun, who already guarded the cemetery at New Hope. By noon the tales had taken on lives of their own, burgeoning with magical buildings, scores of people petrified, and vast storms of blossom or, bizarrely, handkerchieves that appeared from nowhere. Almost everyone seemed to have abandoned any work they might be supposed to be doing in favour of excited gossip, and when word spread that His Majesty would be making a public proclamation at teatime, on the common between City and Temple District, an exodus began immediately.

Realising that if they wanted to be able to see and hear anything they’d best get moving themselves, Taren gave permission to the servants, and with the house locked behind them the siblings went too. The assembled crowd was already vast, and Taren was relieved to see an area to one side had been roped off for nobles, but progress through the cheerful throng was slow, and as they at last neared it he was interested to see Mrs Weaver and her husband being escorted to the front by a rather ugly but smiling man before whom a path opened like magic. The day was warm, the spring sun bright, and several enterprising vendors were offering fruit juices and water, so Taren took advantage for himself, his siblings, and the servants. Entering the roped-off area he found his actions noted with approval by Lord Imrah, as cheery as ever, and they exchanged news of Legann and Stone Mountain for a while, until a fanfare announced His Majesty.

The Queen and Crown Couple accompanied him, with a stocky, purple-eyed woman who could only be the Lioness and an older couple Imrah identified as _her_ parents, Their Graces of Mindelan, but it was the King himself who spoke, a mage behind him boosting his voice so all could hear. His voice was at first very dry, reporting a successful visit that had deepened goodwill between rulers and secured valuable military and trade agreements, especially with the Craftsbeings’ Guild, but he then wryly acknowledged that there had been certain unexpected and remarkable events, and as he would rather all knew the truth, he would tell them exactly what had happened, in so far as he understood it. The tale that followed was utterly extraordinary, but sequence and detail were perfectly clear — a Yamani lord called Michizane noh Fujiwara who had been selfishly disaffected with imperial rule, and ordered an attempt to kill the dragon kit, Lady Skysong, foiled by the Countess-Protector and most thoroughly punished by rightful proceeding of the Craftsbeings’ Guild, acting with the explicit consents of Lords Mithros and Weiryn. Dragons, basilisks, griffins, stormwings, and even the Wild Hunt had each been called to play their proper parts, marshalled and led by the Countess-Protector, presiding as Guildmaster, and the outcome had been the petrification for permanent warning display of all the most culpable offenders, from the would-be assassin to Lord Fujiwara himself. By special request of the Countess-Protector the Graveyard Hag had allowed all present to see Lord Dabeyoun drag the guilty souls free of the stone that encased them and chase them out of the Mortal Realm, and while it was true Lady Keladry had then slept for thirty-six hours straight to recover from her labours, she had taken no harm and was already safely ashore at Mindelan and on her way back to New Hope.

At that juncture the King swore a gods’ oath that he spoke truly, and chimes rang in witness, but he wasn’t done, and his voice became wry.

“It’s not that I have any intention of saying anything untrue, people, only that I’m not at all sure I understand the rest of what happened, so attesting any account of it by gods’ oath seems unwise. But one of the things we went for was to attend the dedication of a new temple to Lord Sakuyo, designed and built in the western port-city of Edo by the Craftsbeings’ Guild, and after all that excitement in Heian-kyó we went there to do so. I am told by the Godborn that all gods have the right to attend dedications of their own temples and shrines, so it was expected that Lord Sakuyo would manifest, and he did.” The crowd murmured, and the King held up a hand. “Wait for it. What was less expected was that when he did so he decided both to rebuke one of his own priests for failing to appreciate his sense of humour, and to commemorate the event by painting it, with all in attendance.” Silence replaced murmurs, gripping all. “He is a very good painter, and has now depicted Lady Keladry four times. But what really left everyone reeling, Yamani and Tortallan alike, was that while he got on with his painting he also opted to … chat, I suppose, with Lady Keladry.” The King shrugged eloquently. “They were speaking Yamani, so I have only reports of what was actually said, but I’d imagine you all know he called her his favourite daughter in the paragraph he added to her book, and he showed that to be true beyond doubting. All that really matters, though, is that he also strongly approved what she had done to Lord Fujiwara and his allies, and thanked her for once again aiding in what he called a great jest. _Another one_.”

The King shook his head, as if to clear it, and there was, Taren thought, a certain appreciation in the intent crowd.

“So there it is, and you can make of it what you will. What I make of it is the obvious — _don’t_ mess with dragons, and _don’t_ mess with the Countess-Protector, ever, for any reason, which means not messing with the Craftsbeings’ Guild.” Taren assumed the King’s glare was aimed at some guildsmen. “And I will add that while details remain to be decided, a temple to Lord Sakuyo will be constructed here as a matter of urgency, and his feast day, which is April 1st, will from next year be properly observed, Mithros preserve us. That’s all.”

Taren suspected the Lioness and His Grace of Mindelan might have had things to add, given a chance, but they departed with the royals, and he found Imrah quirking eyebrows as a great buzz of wonderment arose.

“I told you Kel was as much friend as servant to the gods, and it seems I was right. To Lord Sakuyo, anyway.” Imrah laughed. “You’ll be having an even more interesting time at New Hope than you would anyway. Just remember to enjoy it, eh?”

Taren shook his own head, fiercely for a moment, and for the first time felt a real sympathy for the King.


	4. Chapter Three -- Heading North

**Three : Heading North**

_Great North Road, 13–26 April 464 HE_

 

HAVING promised to do so, it was necessary to send once more to Countess Keladry, confirming their trip, but as Taren wrote the letter next morning, offering further congratulations and asking if they might try to arrive before Beltane, he was interrupted by a nervous servant informing him that Sir Alanna of Olau and Pirate’s Swoop requested an audience. Sam was sparring at the Palace, but having ordered refreshments Taren collected an equally surprised but excited Var, and went to see what the Lioness could possibly want.

They found her studying the panoramic sketch with approval, and explaining its origins allowed for some mutual assessment. What she thought of him Taren couldn’t imagine, though she said Lord Imrah had commended him, assuring her Stone Mountain had taken a decided turn for the better ; close to, her purple eyes were deeply disconcerting, but there was also an unexpected cheerfulness in her manner that Var guilelessly remarked.

“Quite right, Lady Varia, and you can chalk it up to _not_ being on a ship any more. I find sea travel unremittingly ghastly, and fascinating as the Copper Isles and Yaman were I am _very_ happy to be back on a proper continent where a horse is all you need.” She grinned. “I’m also still as amused about Kel and Lord Sakuyo upending Yaman as Jon is grumpy at being outmatched, again, but if we get into that I’ll be here all day.”

Taren didn’t think Var would have minded, and was himself intrigued by the familiar description of the King, but with glasses of fruit juice served the Lioness became briskly informative.

“Kel asked me to stop by, Lord Taren, to apologise for not replying sooner to the letter you sent when the Yaman trip was announced — she was distracted by her twins, she said, which seems fair enough — and to tell you you’re expected at New Hope as soon as you care to head north.”

“Ah. Thank you, Sir Alanna. I was just writing to ask if a visit was still convenient.”

“I don’t know about convenient — New Hope’s always buzzing, and Kel’s got plenty on her plate — but you will be welcome.”

Taren blinked. “Besides new twins, who are thriving, I trust, what sort of plenty, Sir Alanna? I don’t wish us to be an ill-timed burden.”

“Don’t fret, Lord Taren, Kel’s always busy, and the plenty won’t stop anytime soon. She was expecting some fighting ogres and a Clanchief’s guard that’s been wished on her, and there’ll shortly be imperial samurai and spidrens too, as well as the new Fourth Company of the Own. Oh, and some Yamani engineers, I believe. Fun all round.”

“Fun with engineers?”

Var’s voice was a squeak of excitement.

“Eh? I doubt it — Kel has a bee in her bonnet about making the Vassa navigable, and the Yamanis know how to get round rapids, but it’ll be a brute of a job. I meant militarily, Lady Varia. Integrating ogres and Scanrans would be interesting enough, never mind having samurai and spidrens in the mix. And gods but those spidrens are fast. I’m quite jealous, really, and the cross-training’ll be one for the books. Nothing to stop you all going, anyway, and the twins are certainly thriving, Lord Taren, which leads to the second thing, because Kel had to delay their namedays while she went to Yaman, so those are due at Samradh, which with her birthday just after means a _lot_ of people will be heading north.”

Taren nodded, having realised they might find themselves attending a nameday, demanding appropriate gifts, and added a birthday to the list. The Lioness surprised him with a laugh that could only be called a cackle.

“Well, Jon declines to go, saying publically that he’s fed up with travelling, and privately that he’s had quite enough of Protectors and gods for a bit, so Thayet will probably stay as well. But Roald’s standing as godsparent to young Lalasa, as are her namesake and Lady Yukimi, while Shinko’s one of young Merric’s, with Sir Neal and Cavall, which is very Kel, not to mention priceless. They’ll be glaring at one another so hard they’ll forget to take their oaths. And I shall go with George, mostly for pleasure and a proper ride, but I also want a word or seven with Numair, who refuses to leave his spell-blending seminar. Now, Lalasa can’t be away for any longer than she must, nor Roald and Shinko, so they and some other Maids will travel with an army escort in June — accompanying Lianne and her party as far as the Galla Road. But Lalasa wants to send one of her senior seamstresses now, to fuss over the nameday gowns and sort out young Tobeis and Irnai, who’ve both grown, as well as Dom’s wardrobe, and Kel’s amenable, though she rolled her eyes, so we wondered if you’d mind acting as an escort. There’s bolts of cloth and whatnot to go as well, meaning packhorses, but Thayet’s authorised use of the palace pool so they’ll be good beasts, with a groom or two to look after them, and shouldn’t slow you down much, if at all.”

Taren, if taken aback both by the casual flood of information and the wholly unexpected request, was happy to agree, promising to visit Mrs Weaver that afternoon, and the Lioness nodded.

“Good, and thank you on Kel’s behalf, Lord Taren. I’ll let her know once she’s back at New Hope. When do you mean to leave?”

“As soon as may be, Sir Alanna. Not more than a few days, certainly. Corus has been enjoyable and instructive, but we seem to have been waiting to meet Countess Keladry for a very long time.”

“And you’d like to be done with apologising, I expect.” Those purple eyes were suddenly very shrewd, and Var was fighting a grin. “One word of advice, Lord Taren. I understand why you feel obliged to offer her one, but if it’s to your credit that you do, you still weren’t responsible for Joren’s vileness or your father’s selfishness, so once you’ve got it off your chest, let it go. Don’t be too grateful either — Kel’s rather allergic to being thanked, even when there’s cause piled as high as the gods, and once she’s heard from Lalasa she’ll want to be thanking _you_.”

Taren’s slight umbrage dissolved in his surprise. “Whatever for?”

“Apologising to Lalasa, for starters. _That_ was well done. And discombobulating the elemental will come a close second.” The cackle was infectious, though Taren didn’t think he’d done any such thing. “Your down-payment theory is interesting as well. Besides, Kel’s never quite forgiven it for calling her the Protector of the Small, though the gods know she protects almost everything.”

“Can you tell us about her protecting Lady Skysong, Sir Alanna?”

A finger wagged. “Not before I have to be elsewhere, Lady Varia, but she was entirely splendid, as Lord Sakuyo said.” The Lioness rose, grinning, and pointed to the panoramic sketch. “Just imagine ninety-eight more of Wuodan and Frige, led by Kel riding the male Horse God and trailed by two very large dragons with most of the Stone Tree Nation. All up in the air. And, again by Lord Sakuyo’s testimony, with any number of gods laughing themselves silly about the whole thing. Or laughing themseves sensible, maybe, which is even better.” Her look became thoughtful. “Go gently, but Kit’ll probably be ready to talk about it herself by the time you get to New Hope. Or Tobe — he enjoyed more of it, and wasn’t anything as upset. Just don’t ask Kel. Or Dom. And have a safe journey.”

The house seemed rather smaller and oddly quiet once the Lioness had breezed out, until a bemused Taren shook himself and goosed servants and guards into accelerated preparations to depart. Given the images she had left in his and Var’s minds, both felt some lunch was in order, but as soon as he’d eaten Taren headed out for Stuvek Street. Mrs Weaver was busy with clients, but Elma Spinner, the woman she wished to send north, was a trim and efficient widow in her 40s, whose bags were already packed ; she assured Taren other preparations were well in hand, and before he left a boy hastily despatched to the Royal Stables returned to confirm a dawn departure the day after next.

Returning to the house Taren detoured to call on Journeyogre Elimiaju, letting him know what had been decided, taking his leave, and asking if there were anything else he might convey to New Hope. There wasn’t, but the immortal said he appreciated the courtesy, adding that he had passed word of what Lady Varia had said about their needs at Stone Mountain to the Guild’s senior masterminer, Kuriaju, who would be expecting Taren to seek him out.

“Thank you, Elimiaju. That is very helpful.” Taren tossed a mental coin, and took a chance. “I must confess I’ve been wondering what you made of the news from Yaman.”

“I am still thinking about it, Lord Taren, but it seems stone and fire have spoken again, as well as Lord Sakuyo.”

“Oh.” That wasn’t what Taren had had in mind, but he’d take anything offered. “Um, stone in the petrifications, I suppose. But fire?”

“Lady Skysong was obliged to kill with dragonfire in defending herself and the Protector. It was a further reason for the dragons’ rage at what happened, for she is very young to bear such a burden. I believe Lord Fujiwara’s compound burned also, in the aftermath of the Protector’s justice. And not only petrifications, Lord Taren, for there is also the new stonework Manian’aan and Fariaju achieved with Lord Sakuyo’s temple. It is not easy to describe, but the building is a hemisphere, of bonded and petrified wooden panels, and Manian’aan managed to vary the translucency so an image of the god formed of two _kanji_ , meaning _jest_ and _tranquility_ , appears in light inside.” Taren tried entirely unsuccessfully to imagine this, and received an ogre smile he thought might be a little teasing, though it wasn’t easy to tell. “So you might say we do now know more clearly a part of what stone has said.”

“Stone said _jest_ and _tranquility_?”

“And _Sakuyo_ , yes. The _Stone Fools_ , as the petrified dead were named by Tobeis, are more a warning from the basilisks, I think, supporting the dragons, and all the louder for having been uttered by their eldest, Haarist’aaniar’aan. It is long since he last visited the Mortal Realm, but he came because, as Lady Skysong was obliged to kill, so too was the youngest basilisk, Amir’aan. Who also used the rock spell, of course, and _that_ petrification may be another matter. Earfiller must be pondering it, so you might ask him.”

Amused despite his genuine bafflement, Taren raised an eyebrow. “And would I understand the answer?”

Elimiaju grinned. “Probably not, and it would take a while. But I was not wholly unserious, Lord Taren. Your conduct here has been noted and approved by many, as the words of Macarran have passed among immortals, and it has occurred to more than one of us that the name of your fief, and the nature of the immortal aid you seek, may not be so resonant with the Protector’s tale without reason. I cannot tell you it is so, but certainly your care of younger siblings and the children of your liegers is consonant with the turn the Timeway had taken. So I think stone may also be speaking through you, and Lady Varia, desiring the order you would restore to it. What you ask is your business, but Earfiller would not scorn your question, nor Kuriaju.”

What to make of that Taren had no idea at all, nor Sam or Var when he reported it over tea, with additional details about Yamani events gleaned from Elimiaju. Speaking stone might be incomprehensible, and a partly translucent hemispherical building that told divine jokes beyond imagination, but dragon and basilisk rage for kits threatened and obliged to kill was neither, and the King had said nothing about anyone’s compound being burned, nor about Countess Keladry’s son naming the petrified dead with such terrifying humour. Var was sure the boy wasn’t more than twelve or thirteen, but he was a veteran of the siege and more, as Sam reminded them by mentioning Svein’s shock at his having accompanied Lady Keladry when she executed Rogal. Even so, it was disconcerting to realise the grimly deadpan jest in his naming, especially if it had been made in Yamani. Their conversation trickled on into supper, but Var was more interested in those Yamani engineers and the idea of the building, and Sam in the Lioness’s words about ogres and Scanrans cross-training, so more abstract and perhaps theological questions were abandoned.

But they did not leave Taren’s mind, and the following day, having replenished his ready funds for the journey from the goldsmith-banker, he asked for the Stone Mountain chest to be brought from the vault. Although never itself a source of gemstones, more than one previous lord of Stone Mountain had invested surplus wealth in durable rock, and Taren had already withdrawn a pair of small matched emeralds to adorn the napkin-rings that were his nameday gifts — a safely traditional choice made interesting by the quality of the gems. And he had wondered about a more substantial gift for _her_ , deciding in the end that it was too great a presumption as well as open to misunderstanding. But Elimiaju’s words had offered a different logic that might be tenuous but had kept him awake late, for among the accumulated treasures was an unflawed blood-red ruby, too large for a ring and too perfect to break up ; it was said once to have been among the Thanic royal regalia, and its size and purity had at some juncture earned it a name — the Firestone. Lying in its velvet case it didn’t seem to deserve it, but when Taren held it to the light many colours of fire stirred in its depths. Was it foolish to think the name a clue, even a prompt to see it being used for something, rather than stifled in the dark? He could just imagine what his father would have said about such an idea, but then heard Var’s voice telling the King that the elemental could not exercise a privilege if it was denied a choice. Nor could Countess Keladry, or the Guild, and having restored the ruby to its case he pocketed it, signing the inventory kept with the gems. Thinking of the Countess’s birthday, he also took a beautifully worked opal brooch.

Other necessary gifts had all been dealt with. Besides the napkin-rings he had purchased a collection of educational toys, confident that if unneeded by the Countess they would find grateful homes somewhere at New Hope, and some simpler but pleasing dolls a Protector’s Maid created. For Tobeis there was a beautifully tooled leather belt, with a sheath for a knife. Adults had been trickier, but his contact with Tomas Weaver had gleaned descriptions of the house New Hopers had collectively given their Countess as a wedding-present, with confirmation that there were plenty of things it could still use. With the Countess in mind he had bought a selection of the finest blankets and household linen he could find, and thinking of her husband, an entirely unknown quantity, a case of fine southern wine, despite its unwelcome weight. What one could in courtesy give immortals remained uncertain ; Elimiaju had laughed and said it was unnecessary, but when pressed indicated that basilisks liked stone delicacies, such as coral and fossils, ogres could always use fresh spices, and all spidrens, not only Macarran, had a sustained weakness for strong cheese. Taren hadn’t thought he’d be able to buy fossils, but it turned out there was a stall in the Daymarket that sold them, polished up, as ornaments, so a selection had joined the packets of spices and several rounds of cheese, as tightly sealed as could be managed. All in all, he felt confident he’d done what he could, and knew both Sam and Var had themselves chosen guesting gifts to offer, but even so he spent an hour wandering through the Daymarket and another visiting more expensive shops in Patten and Upmarket, adding jewellery trinkets, seeds, and hanks of good wool to his armoury.

Much of his last evening in Corus was necessarily spent first with Vesker, going over travel arrangements, then with the house-steward, ensuring he understood what did need sending on to New Hope, what he could deal with on his own authority, and what should be referred to Commander Svein. Though an appointee of his father’s, Erral Sawyer was relatively young, his elderly predecessor having suffered an apoplexy not long after his employment as a deputy, and Taren had grown confident in his loyalty and sense. Once it had become clear the young lord of Stone Mountain was open to change, Erral had made helpful suggestions about things that could be done more efficiently, and the household had responded warmly to the improvements. He also kept a useful ear to the ground, proving it again by telling Taren that while the new spellmirrors had, during the war, been restricted to the military, that might soon change, and asking if he should seek to purchase a pair or two. The magical devices were on Taren’s New Hope wish-list, but he gave Erral a free hand for a larger Corus–Stone Mountain pair and as many smaller, personal ones as could be had, with black opals if possible, so the Ungifted could use them. Perhaps the single greatest difficulty left by the war was a serious decline in mage numbers, and even very generous offers could not hire people who were not there to be hired. Then there was only his own final packing of his personal saddlebag before he could seek a welcome bed and sleep soundly.

They were fed and saddled by dawn, yawning in chill air, and Mrs Spinner was waiting at the corner of Daymarket, well-mounted, with three laden packhorses and a sleepy groom. The placid Olorun was fiery with low sunlight as they crossed Kingsbridge, and with the roads only beginning to fill it was an easy ride across Prettybone and Highfields to the North Gate. In the wide valley the city remained visible for a while, but by mid-morning they topped the northern ridge and at last left it behind.

 

* * * * *

 

New sights were again of interest to all the siblings. For several days out of Corus the land was gently rolling, fertile valleys separated by low downs that offered good grazing, and settlement was far denser than in the east. The road was well-built, wider rivers or gullies sturdily bridged, but some fords were more of a challenge, and at one they had to wait several hours until the effects of a spring cloudburst, still visible to the west, subsided and the grooms judged it safe for the packhorses. A mule-train carrying sea-salt bound for eastern Scanra and Galla was also delayed, and they passed the time pleasantly enough, talking to the muleteers and tracing on Taren’s maps the route they’d be taking, on the Galla Road that cut across north-eastern Tortall to the City of the Gods and the headwaters of the Middle Drell.

Taren took care to ride for some of each day with Mrs Spinner, solicitous of her well-being, interested to know her better, and curious to understand the friendship her journey represented. She was no easy gossip, but that Taren already understood how the Protector’s Maids system so improbably worked was enough to let her tell her own story ; her husband’s death, from a slow tumour that had eaten their savings in healers’ unavailing care before killing him, might have meant ruination, and nearly had, but Mrs Weaver heard the tale and needed skilled women as her business expanded. Mrs Spinner was good enough with a needle to have had her own business, and had been offered that choice, but a guaranteed and generous salary suited her better, and she had nothing but praise for the kindness of it — though there were some more pointed tales about ill-mannered clients who supposed Mrs Weaver would let them shame her in styles that could never suit their figures. About New Hope she was more reticent, though they did get a fuller tale of the wedding with, for the first time, an account of the paintings by Lord Sakuyo that had been among the gifts ; and a brief incident on their third day of travel won some more concessions.

In early afternoon they overtook a long and heavily laden wagon-train with a company of guards, and Mrs Spinner dropped out of their column to speak to the Wagon Master. Taren told Vesker to leave a couple of his guards as escort, and slowed their pace until the trailers caught up. Mrs Spinner obviously felt he was owed an explanation, and after thanking him for the guards said the wagons were bound for New Hope, their cargo including some heavier bolts of cloth she’d need, so she’d wanted to get an accurate estimate of when they’d be arriving.

“I’ve plenty of material for the children’s clothes, my lord, and it may well be things they already have can have seams let out. We always allow generously for growth with younglings. But a proper wardrobe for Captain Dom’s another matter, oh, Count Domitan, I should say, for all he’s so wry about it.”

“He is, ma’am?”

“Oh yes, my lord. Said he’d only been a captain for a year and needed time to get used to it, going from sergeant to count being too confusing for everyone.” She laughed. “He meant it too, but that’s what happens around Lady Kel, and him being stubborn about having a proper wardrobe for his rank doesn’t help her, nor anyone.”

All of that made perfect sense to Taren, so abruptly promoted himself and possessed of more new clothes than he’d ever had before, and he nodded.

“No, indeed. And how is it you were chosen to make this trip, ma’am?”

She hesitated a moment, then shrugged. “It’s mostly Her Majesty’s doing, my lord. When news they were all off to Yaman came in, she had Lal, Mrs Weaver, do some formal kimonos in a hurry, for her and the Lioness, and for Captain Dom and Tobeis, saying they’d not think of it themselves. Then she thought a bit, and said actually they both needed any number of proper outfits, like a bride’s trousseau, which Lal and I could only agree with, having seen for ourselves at the wedding and after, so we set it up for when they came back. Then Her Majesty came by the other day to say that it was all on her, by way of thanks to them both for all they’d done in Yaman.”

“Her Majesty is generous, as I have reason to appreciate myself. And forgive my asking, ma’am, but do you have any idea what it was they did, exactly? We’ve all been trying to digest the news from Yaman, but the only thing I’ve heard about either Count Domitan or Lord Tobeis is Lord Tobeis having named the, ah, rebels, I suppose, the ones who were petrified, anyway, as the _Stone Fools_.”

“Oh!” Mrs Spinner’s hand covered her mouth for a moment. “I’d not heard that, my lord, but I can hear Tobe saying it. And you’re right, he is Lord Tobeis now, isn’t he, not that he’s any keener on titles than Captain Dom. I must watch myself. As to your question, my lord, who knows, but Lady Kel said at her wedding that she depends on him, so I expect she did some more, but I know no details, I’m afraid.”

Sam, Var, and the royal groom were riding close behind, listening, and the groom diffidently said the Palace stables had been full of a tale about Lord Tobeis rubbing down the Horse God after the Protector had ridden him to lead the Wild Hunt, and some coaxing from Var got the man to open up a distinctly different angle, reflecting the experiences of servants who’d accompanied the royal party. Nothing changed in the main events, but there were many supplementary remarks, from the Protector’s prodigious appetite after her long sleep, which had kept the kitchens sweating and hopping for a whole day, to a complete change in the attitudes of Yamani servants to their Tortallan counterparts — initially, it seemed, rather stand-offish and suspicious of foreigners, which the groom thought only to be expected, but then wondering and increasingly respectful, because immortals were so polite and on account of something that happened at a temple, and at the last openly deferential, eager for any connection with the Protector.

That Taren thought about hard, for Svein had spoken of the intense personal loyalty Countess Keladry had won from all at New Hope, whatever their kind or degree ; he’d seen for himself what she’d had the King and Wardsmen do for the Lower City, with the respect and affection it garnered her, beyond pride in her victories for Tortall ; and this sounded like more of the same. What little he knew of Yaman from reading suggested a rather rigid society, with distinctions of rank scrupulously observed, but what the King had said about the Countess punishing equally all who’d been guilty of the attack on Lady Skysong, and about _chatting_ with Lord Sakuyo, suggested she might have shaken that up, and was oddly resonant with this tale of winning over servants as much as the emperor. In a small way Taren had been trying the same tactics himself, building loyalty through proper care and willing kindness, and while his mind still balked at the scale on which the Countess seemed to operate, he was beginning to see more clearly the shape of the changes she was driving, and the effects they would have.

He had not, he thought, been wrong to think Stone Mountain hopelessly behind the times, weakened in social isolation through his father’s overweening pride, but there were more qualifying factors than he had tallied. One was that many Tortallan proprieties and engrained habits had only recently been challenged, most obviously in the re-emergence of lady knights and the return of immortals, so changes elsewhere, if more accepted in principle, were in practice less advanced than he had first thought. A second was that the radical changes the Countess and Guild were driving were newer still, to everyone, so much so that this trip put him ahead of the curve. That wagon-train was a case in point, for it was larger, more heavily laden, and better guarded than anything else they’d passed, a material indication of New Hope pulling wealth northwards ; and that reflection prompted him to spend much of the following day gently extracting from Mrs Spinner her understanding and opinions of the way the Corus guilds had behaved, and what might be desired in their future behaviour.

The general matter was there to be seen all about, for the further north they went the clearer the penalties of climate. By their fifth and sixth days it was obvious that the uplands supported smaller herds, and valleys either had only small, swift streams with little room for planting, or, when shallower and possessed of decent bottomland, already had every available inch ploughed. Forest also became commoner, and the inn they stayed at on one long stretch through woodland was clearly run through hunting and gathering, with flour and hay carted in from the last valley, more than twenty miles back. The road was also being kept clear, he suspected, more by traffic than work-crews, and there were places where everyone had to crowd to one or another side to avoid muddy seeps or crumbled dips. There _were_ signs of some care — ruts or potholes filled, branches cut back, and occasional gravel — but the downside of heavier traffic was increased wear, and Var agreed that more serious action would be needed within a few years.

They were lucky with the weather and took advantage, riding as hard as the welfare of the horses allowed. Late on the ninth day they arrived at Queensgrace, where the Galla Road headed off for the north-east, and the waymeet was marked by a small town with three inns. Vesker said they were making excellent time but resting the horses for a day would be wise. Taren agreed, swallowing impatience, and they spent the restday visiting the nearby castle at Princehold, where the lord was absent but the steward showed them round ; during the evening, though, he found it increasingly hard to keep his temper with the innkeep, whose manner was gratingly obsequious and whose cleanliness and reckonings equally suspect. They’d chosen the _Jug and Fire_ as the largest inn, to give everyone a room, but the innkeep seemed to think their extra day an excuse to try hiking the bill with needless extras no-one had ordered or consumed. Vesker was indignant, his guards having been charged for drinks and broken crocks they’d never seen, and for the first time on the journey Taren consciously drew on his lordship and demanded the magistrate be summoned ; the bill was soon reduced to what it ought to be, and a formal complaint registered that he suspected from the signs of collusion between innkeep and magistrate would go nowhere. A word with Vesker produced the information that an army messenger heading south was staying at one of the smaller inns, and before they left next dawn he intercepted the man to add to his pouch a polite note to Duke Turomot suggesting some investigation was in order.

North of Queensgrace the headwaters of the Tellerun soon became unnavigable, and the Road entered a long stretch of flatter scrubland, broken by occasional farms supporting more goats than sheep or cattle. The effects of lacking any major river system between here and the basins of the Drell and Vassa were evident : simple wayhouses rather than inns had clearly been the norm during the war, but with trade picking up settlements were beginning to develop, expanding basic farrier and ostler services with larger smithies, better stabling, and some variety in the food available. One had acquired a hedgewitch who’d approved the smith’s gentle giant of a son, and they were all grateful for some balm to ease saddlesores, a little coarse and unscented, but effective. Another, thirty miles further north, had become a stud for mules, and after carefully observing the new owners, two sisters and their husbands, a dinner conversation ranging over their intent to provide exchange animals for trains, and hopes to expand into a proper horse stud, led Taren, after consulting Sam and Var, and checking that the couples had no liegelord, to offer them an investment and secure their delighted agreement. They gained security and could expand much sooner than they’d thought possible, while he was sure he’d get his money back in the medium term, and profit in the longer : business was plainly going to increase, they’d seen a genuine opportunity, and were impressive as a tightknit family, and in handling stock and customers. Another timely army messenger heading south agreed to carry Taren’s letters to his goldsmith-banker and House Steward Sawyer, arranging credit and accommodation, with use of the mews for stabling.

Vesker ranged alongside him next day, happy with what he’d done but taken aback, and curious about his thinking, so they spoke of it, at first a little awkwardly. Taren was clearer about what he wanted to do than why, but it came down to two things : following Countess Keladry’s lead in helping new businesses, for its own sake and to share wealth that shouldn’t be hoarded, and redeeming the name and reputation of Stone Mountain with civility shown beyond its borders. Vesker listened, asking occasional questions, and steupsing from time to time as he thought something through. Then he surprised Taren considerably.

“Are you going to ’ave Protector’s Maids at Stone Mountain, then, my lord?”

Taren had not put it so bluntly to himself, but didn’t hesitate in replying. “If the Protector is willing I should, Vesker, but she may not be. So far she has established the scheme only in Corus and Port Caynn, both royal possessions, and she has Their Majesties’ blessings. She might not wish to operate in another’s fief — the way they’re set up means she profits well despite real generosity in the arrangements, so each business would represent a flow of money out of the fief. A tax, in effect, and that raises hackles. But if she doesn’t want Protector’s Maids in Stone Mountain, then there’ll be, I don’t know, Lady Varia’s Maids, maybe, or my mother’s and aunt’s, on the same model. I want a prosperous, loyal, and happy fief, and that means making it better for everyone. The Maids’ scheme is a good one, and one way of achieving that.” Taren’s thoughts shifted, curiosity rising. “Do you have a particular reason for asking, Vesker?”

The senior guard looked down for a moment, then met his gaze fully.

“I do, my lord. My sister bakes a mean pie, and makes useful coin cooking for neighbours’ birthdays, weddings, and the like. And Balter’s wife’s a dab ’and with cakes and biscuits. She can do that fancy icing, all roses and knots, as well as anything I’ve seen in Corus. I dunno as it’s what they’d want, my lord, either of ’em, but I confess we’ve wondered a bit, Balter and me, since we been in Corus and seen ’ow …”

Taren raised an eyebrow. “Say it, please, Vesker, whatever it is. Mentioning something awkward because it comes up isn’t the same as mentioning it with intent to … discombobulate.” Vesker looked at him and he grinned. “I know, but the Lioness said it about something, so I had to look it up, and it was exactly right. It means to put someone out of their reckoning, with some upset. To make them unsure of themselves, leave them fretting. And that’s not what you’re about, so go ahead.”

He received a stare, and a deep nod, as much of a bow as one might manage on horseback and in half-armour, returning a nod of his own.

“I was only going to say, my lord, that we’ve seen ’ow you’re not like your father. No-one would ever ’ave been so stupid as to ask Lord Burchard for a loan so some guardsmen’s wife and sister could set up a bakery, but you, my lord, well, you might say no, and say why, but you’d not leave a man feeling an inch ’igh for supposing ’e was worth the trouble of being refused out of ’and.”

Inside, Taren shuddered, but kept his countenance. “I surely hope not, Vesker, and if you ever hear me trying to do such a thing, for the gods’ sake tell me so at once. And while it will have to be something your sister and Balter’s wife want, not something you and Balter want for them, if they do then surely, we’ll sort that out, one way or another. Have you talked to Mrs Spinner about them?”

“A bit, my lord. I wouldn’t offer detail before I knew it was alright with you.”

“Thank you, Vesker, but go ahead. You write a fair hand, don’t you?”

“I dunno about fair, my lord, but I can write.”

“And Balter?”

“A bit, and nowise fair.”

Taren grinned, but kicked himself. “Sort out some lessons, please, at New Hope if you can, and back at Stone Mountain as well. I’d like all my guards to have their letters, not just the Corus detail. And write to your sister, asking if she _does_ want and explaining how it works. Do you know yourself?”

As it turned out, Vesker did, to a considerable degree. The name Protector’s Maids had made for talk, and that all were the Countess’s paid servants, wages guaranteed and profits shared, was generally understood, as were the facts that temporary help, like kin who helped out when Midwinter boosted business, simply received pay in hand for work done, and that the Countess made substantial profits from the whole scheme. Asked about that, Vesker shrugged, brow creasing

“Folk know it’s needed where it’s going is what it comes down to, my lord. That money’s not keeping her ’igh on the ’og, nor nothing like. It’s paying for food and care ’er folk need. All them children she rescued too, and younglings cost, no matter what. And she’s taken more. All the families of the convict soldiers ’ave been made to feel welcome, I’m told, and ’andsomely — they’ve been given ’omes, even landgrants, some of ’em, and all their kids go to school for free.”

That was new to Taren, and as he heard more from Vesker and some other guards more pieces of the puzzle that was the Countess fell into some sort of order. There were a few stories of people being refused at New Hope, usually because they were skipping out on obligations elsewhere, and runaways had better have good reason, but once you were in all accounts agreed you were treated not only fairly but well, sometimes very well ; the other side of the coin being that not only loyalty and obedience but good standards of honesty, cleanliness, and hard work were expected from all. Real problems were dealt with swiftly, but petty complaints might receive short shrift. The free schooling was compulsory, and dealt with more than making sure all children had their letters and numbers : self-defence was included with exercise, adequate Scanran expected from all, and basic competence with at least one weapon. Taren had to think about that one, but realised that if you trusted your liegers it might have many beneficial effects, and one guard answered the other burning question by explaining that many siege veterans who’d been refugees had returned to their former lands, so the Tortallan half of the fief, at least, had plenty of people who were well trained.

It turned out that guard had a cousin in Genlith who knew someone who’d come north the previous year to claim a small landgrant held by an aunt and uncle killed when Anak’s Eyrie fell ; a long Midwinter letter, dictated to a scribe and asking urgently for farm labour, had included enthusiastic descriptions of New Hope’s many benefits. Taren shook his head, more in annoyance at himself for not tapping such sources sooner, and listened carefully to everything the man remembered. It included warnings, about needing to get along with immortals of all kinds, the hounds of the Wild Hunt smelling any serious guilt anyone bore, and the common shortage of healers, but was full of wondering satisfaction and praise from neighbours for the Countess as a far better liegelady than the late Sir Tyrral ; honest and fair as he’d been, he’d lacked something she had, and though the former fief had suffered badly, workparties with immortals were helping with repairs, and opportunities were there for the asking.

So half-a-dozen people had gone to New Hope from Genlith, and all the guards knew of families from Corus with similar tales. They had passed many small parties on the road that were also, Taren realised, probably bound for New Hope and the Countess’s bounty, and while he had no clear idea of the new fief’s population, it clearly needed to rise. The danger would be getting misfits and chancers, but you could build a populace with a desire to work and strong reasons for grateful loyalty. Add _that_ to the schooling and military training, with the sheer size of the lands granted New Hope, and words Taren had heard in Corus about the burgeoning political strength of the new fief, beyond its military importance as the centre of the border, made newly potent sense.

They had left the scrubland as the Road began to rise more seriously, and another two days brought them over some low hills, from the summits of which the horizon was smudged with the heights of the Grimholds, into the Brown River valley as the sun westered and shadows lengthened. Bearsford was a good thirty-five miles south of New Hope, but it was where the fief began, and Taren’s thoughts were abruptly given material form. The town remained independent, without a liegelord, but as a frontier post had acquired, if not a garrison, a very visible military presence. Soldiers in a blue-gray livery stood with town guards at the gate, enquiring politely if travellers were continuing on the Great North Road, and informing those who were that to do so they would need tokens indicating that all adults and children able to walk had attended a briefing ; a large board displayed a simple map of the town, showing the central building where it would be held at the sixth bell. A carter ahead of them, with a tired-looking wife beside him and two thin children perched on his load, protested that they’d need to be eating then, and was briskly told that all innkeeps knew of the arrangement and would not be serving food until the seventh bell. And yes, tokens were absolutely necessary, for wife and children as well, or they would not be allowed to proceed. The carter wasn’t happy, but Vesker cleared his throat loudly enough that he became aware of those behind him, and glumly got his cart moving again. One of the liveried soldiers grinned, thanking Vesker, then eyed them all and became brisk.

“You’re the Stone Mountain party?”

“Yes. Lord Taren, Lord Saman, and Lady Varia, ten guards, four pack ’orses, and three grooms, also escorting Mrs Spinner, with three pack ’orses and one groom. I’m Vesker, senior guard.”

“Thank you, sir. You’re expected, and seats will be reserved at the briefing.”

“Right, and thanks yourself. I like efficiency. Anything else I should know?”

“Not until you enter New Hope, sir, and that’s what the briefing’s for. Here it’s the usual rules, and my town friends there keep good order.”

“I ’ear you. Is there an inn you’d recommend?”

The soldier grinned again. “Despite that fellow, the _Drunken Carter_. Left at the main square. Good food, honest innkeep, used to large parties, and handy for the briefing.”

Taren thanked the man as he passed the gate, receiving a salute, and they found the _Drunken Carter_ easily. Once washed and changed, they had half-a-mark before the briefing, spent ordering suppers that would be waiting when they returned, and wandering in a group around the main square — large and well-kept, with a brace of taverns that seemed orderly if plain by Corus standards, and interesting shops that stayed open late for travellers’ trade. Enticing smells from a bakery had them all feeling the wait for food, and buying biscuits for eighteen earned Taren some extras thrown in, which he gave to a grateful Sam and Var.

The hall used for the briefing was a fair size, but there were enough travellers to need it. Even without their own party Taren counted seventeen, including the carter and his family, and more were entering behind them. A block of seats was indeed reserved for them, so they could sit together, and just as they heard the sixth bell rung in the square three liveried soldiers entered and went to a daïs at one end — the two from the gate flanking a burly man with sergeant’s insignia, who surveyed them, giving a brief bow in Taren’s direction.

“Anyone you remember missin’, lads? Right then. Evenin’, my lords, my lady, everyone. I know you all want your food, and are wonderin’ what this is about, but the answer is keepin’ you and yours safe, so listen carefully. You too, younkers.”

That was to the carter’s children, who sat straighter.

“When you leave here tomorrow you have to pass an inspection point. That’s partly for the fief’s safety. Personal weapons are allowed, but nothin’ more, and you’ll need to show all prepared drugs and any magical items. But it’s mostly for your safety, because once you’re in New Hope you’ll be keepin’ some interestin’ company.”

One of the soldiers drew aside a curtain, and _everyone_ sat straighter as they saw the row of large and detailed images. The sergeant didn’t move, but as he went on the soldier pointed.

“You know we have treaties with immortals, and that means you’re polite to any of them you happen to meet. You might know some of this, but you won’t know it all.

“The ogres are most numerous, and adults are nine or ten feet tall, blue-skinned, and very strong. There are quite a few younkers, but that means six or seven feet tall and only five times stronger than you. Most here are farmers and miners, and have been with us a while, but at the Citadel there’s a troup of fightin’ ones Lady Kel just recruited, who’ll be findin’ it almost as new as you will. They’re not mages.

“Next, basilisks are beaded lizards, about seven foot, and work stone anyway they want it. They are all mages, regardless of age, and there are a couple of younkers at the Citadel. They’re always very polite, and most are kind-hearted, so you make sure you’re properly respectful back. One thing, though — a deal of Guild work involves their rock-spell, which sounds like an avalanche with a lot of shriekin’ in it. It’ll make you jump the first few times you hear it, but it’s no problem.

“Nor are spidrens, but they are harder on the stomach — big spider bodies but human heads with steel teeth. Some are mages, and all have magic webbin’. And here they come in two varieties. There’re the ones who look to Quenuresh or Aldoven, who lair north of the Citadel, in woodland and the next valley east, or to Vendurant, up on the Smiskir. Their lands are not open to mortals without their let, so if you see a sign like that” — the soldier pointed to a red circle with a red bar across a human silhouette — “it means ‘No Mortals Beyond This Point’, so you stop and turn around, and no messin’. They’ll keep themselves to themselves, unless you ask one somethin’ or it sees you’re in trouble it can help with, but you’re more likely to meet the other kind — Yamani ones, who’ve come to serve here with some samurai warriors. It’s a new arrangement, and there are only a few at present, but more are followin’. They’re easy to spot because they’re mailed and carry blades on their first four legs, and they have a responsibility to protect all usin’ the Road.”

Breaths were drawn in, the thought of armed spidrens not being a happy one, but the sergeant and soldiers didn’t seem bothered.

“You’ll also see stormwings — human bodies and heads, savin’ the steel teeth, but steel wings and claws too. Naked, and that’s just how it is, so get over gawpin’ quick. Ours are from the Stone Tree Nation, ruled by Queen Barzha Razorwing, who has a glass crown, and her consort, Prince Hebakh, and if you meet _them_ you’re talkin’ to royalty and need to show it. Otherwise you’ll probably not need to deal with any, but they are given to snarky comments. You can give as good as you get, but strictly words only, and _don’t_ get into a cursin’ match, cos you’ll lose it, fast. If a number fly over you you might feel a bit of panic, but it’s not deliberate, just how they are, and it’ll pass as they do.

“You might also see griffins flyin’ — lion body, but feathered, and eagle head. Mages. You can’t tell lies around them. They’ve a ringin’ cry, but don’t talk so you or me can hear them, and the adults’ll ignore you.” The sergeant sighed. “There is, though, a kit, called Junior, who sticks his beak in anything that takes his fancy. Shoo him away, but _don’t_ , as in _don’t_ , try to hurt him, and if he’s really done any damage tell the first person in livery you see.”

Taren’s eyes met Var’s and Sam’s. Clearly, Turomot had had a point about griffin impudence, but the sergeant wasn’t done.

“Three to go. At the Citadel there are seventeen resident dragons, sixteen Guild apprentices and the Dean, Kawit Pearlscales. All mages, even those who haven’t yet grown wings. Largest are pushin’ twenty feet, snout to rump, and the smallest is about as big as a sheepdog. Don’t talk to them unless one talks to you first, which one might because they’re curious about mortals, and then you’ll just hear words in your head and should be very polite about replyin’. They all take ‘my lord’ or ‘my lady’.

“Then there are darkings. Chances are low you’ll meet one anytime soon, but if a small black blob ever sticks out a little head and tells you something in a squeak, you listen carefully and obey. Orders from any darking are from the top, probably Lady Kel herself, and urgent.

“And last, but no way least, the hounds of the Wild Hunt have free run of all Lady Kel’s woods, and in return guard you, as travellers on the Road. There’s a hundred of them, about pony-size, and they are _not_ immortals. They are divine beings, and we all answer to them at our peril. You are not, however, obliged to feed ’em, even if they’re wheedlin’, but it’s your call. They’re also all well pleased with themselves, just now, having had some fun in Yaman, as I expect you’ve heard.

“Now, it shouldn’t happen, but things do. If anyone has any dispute with an immortal, any immortal, what you _don’t_ do is pursue it yourself, and what you _do_ do, is refer it to Lady Kel as fast as you can talk. The immortals co-operate with all of us, and recognise Lady Kel’s authority. If you have a dispute with one of the hounds it means you’re guilty of something bad, so you’re probably toast, but if you’ve an honest story to tell, ask the hound to call in Wuodan and Frige, who are the only ones who can give them orders. Everyone clear on that? Any questions?”

There were a few, mostly people seeking reassurance that if they left immortals alone, immortals would leave them alone, and while the sergeant gave it cheerfully he warned them they would have dealings of some kind, sooner or later.

“It’s what New Hope does, ma’am”, he told a merchant’s wife. “We all rub along together, and work out how we can do things better by co-operatin’ than any kind can alone. Just remember that _you’re_ the strangers here, not them, and keep an open mind.”

The woman’s pinched expression suggested she might find that hard, but the sergeant only grinned, and told them all that once the shock wore off and they saw the co-operation for themselves, they’d wonder how they’d ever done without it. Then he extended the advice to the foreign visitors they’d be mingling with, pilgrims and traders from Scanra, Yaman, Galla, and all over, before running through some more ordinary rules, with a few surprises among them : fires only in designated firepits, cut no living wood, all animals to be properly fed and cared for, and horses always picketed at night were straightforward ; no hunting or trapping without permission, and overnight stops only at wayhouses, were more stringent restrictions, but the wayhouse-keepers would provide good food to all at cost plus one copper half-bit a head ; and similarly, only designated latrines were to be used, but existed every two or three miles. Once they were on stone roads — a phrase that made Var twitch — which it seemed they would be from just north of Bearsford, animal manure must be shovelled aside also, but besides that rule there was only one toll in the whole fief, so anyone asking for money was to be ignored and reported ; that one toll was for crossing the bridge called Drachifethe, at Dragonstown — a prayer for the peaceful rest of the dragons it commemorated. In the deep silence that followed that statement, the sergeant closed with more reassurances that for all its strangeness New Hope was exactly that, for all who dwelt there and many who visited, and all they had to do was behave.

“Follow Lady Kel’s rules and all will be well. Don’t and it won’t. Simple. And now you’re free to seek your suppers as soon as you’ve collected a token. Don’t lose them, or you’ll wind up back here tomorrow night.”

The soldiers were dealing with that, but the sergeant brought their tokens himself, and all eighteen, not singling out the nobles. Taren thanked him, and received a keen look as well as a nod.

“You’re welcome, my lord. I let Lady Kel know you were here, and she’ll be expectin’ you about sunset tomorrow, unless anything comes up. And if it does, there’ll be a message at Greenwoods Fork, where the Road turns down the valley. Anything else you need, my lord?”

“No, sergeant, but I’m curious. You clearly need those restrictions on camping and hunting, and using designated latrines, so I was wondering how many you’ve had through here. Are there always as many as this?”

“Oh it’s up and down, my lord, but since the road’s been open to wagons not less than a hundred settlers a week, and often more. And there were enough last fall for the latrines to be needed, or the verges would soon’ve been fouled. Same with huntin’, as you guessed, and if some wouldn’t do aught wrong, there’s plenty who don’t know what game not to take, so we’re strict about it.”

A smiling Mrs Spinner offered the sergeant her thanks, and strong approval for the whole process, before adding the likely arrival date of the wagon-train. Food was calling, though, and it wasn’t long before they were enjoying an excellent stew, amid busy conversation. The briefing’s matter of factness about wonders had sunk deep, stirring excitement in everyone, even Mrs Spinner who’d seen New Hope before, and the innkeep and his wife were willing to join them with stories of their own about immortals. Taren went to bed feeling replete yet oddly hollow with anticipation — a sense that chased him into dreams of stone and fire whispering words he could never catch but somehow found comforting.

 

* * * * *

 

The inspection point was barely a quarter-mile north of Bearsford, on the far bank of the Brown River, and impressively organised. The road beyond the bridgeway had been widened with thick gravel laid on both sides, and neat guard-huts with fencing created lanes — one for foot traffic and horses only, one for single carts or wagons, and one for trains. To the left, a latrine was clearly marked, and to the right more fencing enclosed pasture for horses, with a stable and farrier’s smithy. A liveried corporal greeted them politely, took tokens, and recorded names and destinations, while other soldiers checked saddlebags and the packhorses’ loads for weapons. One also had a band with two small jewels set in it that he was running over people and dunnage, and while submitting graciously to the examination Taren asked him what he did.

“They’re magicked to find poisons and any other magic, my lord.”

Such things were costly, but as Taren’s eyebrows rose, the soldier grinned.

“Master Numair made ’em for Lady Kel, my lord. We had some trouble with poisons once before, so … hello.” One stone had flickered a little by Taren’s saddlebag. “Something magical in there, my lord?”

Puzzled, Taren was about to deny it, but had a thought. “There might be. We got some balm for saddlesores, from a hedgewitch at Smithy Halt, two days north of Queensgrace.”

“Ah. Show me, please, my lord.”

Taren did, and the stone glimmered when held by the little jar.

“Alright, my lord.” The jar was returned, and a note made. “Must be a good hedgewitch to light this up.”

“The balm worked well, certainly. Do you find much?”

“Mostly harmless things, like yours, my lord — folk with dreamrose, and the like, and pregnancy charms. But some not. Had a man last week who swore he’d nothing but his food in the bag, but he’d done some foraging south of town, to save on meals, and dug himself some wild horseradish, he reckoned, only it was wolfsbane, the looby. Stone was sun-bright next to it.”

“Huh.” Finding an accidental poison had never occurred to Taren, and recalled another story. “I’m surprised you don’t have an Honesty Gate here as well.”

He got a sharp look, followed by a grin.

“No flies on you, my lord. Lady Kel said she’d be asking Their Featherheads if they’d do one. But I must get on. We’re busy this morning.”

As others in his party were searched, Taren thought about the irreverent nickname for griffins and what its use implied, while he watched the next lane, where the carter was grumbling as he uncovered his load, clearly personal belongings wedged around furniture. His wife and children waited to one side, and Taren frowned as he saw one of the children gnawing a thin crust. The bakery in the square had been open as early as late, and he had an array of rolls and pastries in a basket tied to his saddlehorn, so he caught the mother’s eye.

“Perhaps your children would like some extra breakfast while you wait, ma’am?”

A proffer of turnovers, still warm, drew the children, a boy and girl both looking gaunter than Taren cared to see. As they wolfed the food he was wondering what else he might do when the corporal came over, frowning.

“That’s good of you, my lord. But tell me, Mistress Carter, why you’re so short of coin you can’t feed your bairns as they need?”

The woman was reluctant, but a stern look had her spilling a tale of a week’s delay on the road when one of their horses went lame, and the money they’d saved running out. Joining his wife, the carter wanted to know what business it was of anyone’s, and the corporal gave him an even sterner glare.

“Children don’t starve at New Hope, Master Carter, and that includes yours. Lady Kel won’t have it. Where are you bound?”

The answer seemed to be anywhere along the Vassa Road that needed a cart, with no real notion of a roof their furniture might be under in the meanwhile, and the corporal shook his head.

“Well, I hope for our sakes you’re a better carter than you are a planner. Either way, where you need to go is the Citadel, and they’ll sort you out. Do you have your letters?”

The carter didn’t, but his wife did, and the corporal vanished into one of the guard-huts, returning with a folded sheet of paper.

“You keep that safe, mistress, and show it to the wayhouse-keepers where you stop for lunch and for the night. They’ll let you have the food you need without payment, and mark down what you owe. There’ll be no padding or cheating, just cost and two copper bits for the four of you, like you was told. Once you’re at New Hope and sorted, your debt can be sorted too, so all’s fair and no-one goes hungry. And I’ll be sending word ahead of you, so you make sure your bairns get fed right, or you’ll be in the stink good and proper before you’ve even arrived. Feed yourselves, too — you’re no use to anyone if you get sick.”

Taren had some sympathy for the way the carter, aggression gone, scratched his head in bafflement at the practical kindness, and added some biscuits to the children’s bounty. When the carter stared at him, he shrugged.

“I don’t like seeing hungry children, Master Carter. Nor should you.”

Seeing his own party had been cleared and were ready to go, he wished the family safe travel, and turned away, the corporal falling in beside him and speaking softly.

“Especially when they’re his own, eh, my lord?”

“Surely. But the children are thin, not bruised, so I think he’s just feckless.”

“Sounds right to me, my lord. But I’ll pass word and an eye’ll be kept.”

“Would you like me to save you a messenger?”

“No need, my lord, though it’s a friendly thought. We’ve spellmirrors to the Citadel and most wayhouses.”

Riding on, with a tangible thrill at finally entering New Hope, Taren tallied the surprises just received. Some checking of loads and travellers was common enough, he knew, especially in richer fiefs, and what _left_ Stone Mountain’s mines, quarries, and forges was carefully counted, but he’d never heard of anything so thorough for arrivals at a fief’s border, and certainly none that gave a prior briefing. Nor could he imagine any other fief where children’s hunger would be so swiftly acted on. The physical barriers across the Road and sight of the liveries also served as an emphatic statement that you were entering a new domain, with different rules, reinforcing the effects of the briefing. And though he had known that the Citadel was the home of the Guild, where Master Numair was leading magical experiments, with other mages visiting, he hadn’t translated that into a ready availability of magical devices for official use. There had been several spelled bracelets in use, and if New Hope must have had army spellmirrors during the war, the seemingly casual extension of a spellmirror network to most wayhouses — an unknown number but surely well in double figures, if the whole fief were covered — represented a staggering display of wealth.

Or rather, he realised, _magical_ wealth, for they could make their own as needed, and while it might be accounted in some way, coin wouldn’t be needed. And magical _power_ , for if the whole fief had what amounted to instant communication, all sorts of things would be done differently, and official responses might be breathtakingly swift. The soldiers, too, had been impressive, efficient, civil, mindful of but undaunted by rank, observant, and confident ; that neither the one who’d found his balm nor the corporal had even thought about seeking higher authorisation was also telling, for Horgan had long since taught him about delegating and not interfering once you had, but there had equally been no hint of swagger. Wearing livery, they must be a fief guard, not army, but Taren had no doubt every one he’d spoken to was an army veteran. Whatever else New Hope might be, it was tightly run, and a new understanding grew, gathering up a set of niggling impressions left over from Corus.

That the north of Tortall was poor and wild, the centre and south far richer and (saving the great desert) more populous, everybody knew ; that the Peace Treaty included helping to feed Scanrans, so they stayed at home, was widely understood ; and, in Corus at least, so was the fact that the Craftsbeings’ Guild, renewed flow of silver from Tirrsmont, and generally reviving northern trade were sending a stream of southern money north. But unless they were themselves northerners, most people he’d met, of all ranks, thought of it as some brief compensation for the strains of war, or at best a balance that _would_ shift a little, over time ; Nond certainly thought that way, and Disart, and half the Council of Nobles. But Commander Svein, Count Imrah, Lord Wyldon, Elimiaju, and a few more had known better, and now so did he : even this first, least touch of New Hope shouted that the balance had already tipped, the new weight in the scale being irresistible. And it wasn’t just that, either, for New Hope was not merely a new and large fief, but a northern rival to Corus ; already possessed of the credentials, as a centre of military, magical, and other power, and the residence of not simply another noble but a person of unique status. Given its Scanran half, it was in truth all but a new nation buffering Tortall and Scanra — and _that_ was why the King was so punctilious about his official _Countess-Protector_ s, and why the Crown Prince and Princess were each standing as a godsparent to one of her twins, information the Lioness had so casually dropped, with a mention of a new fourth company of the King’s Own to be stationed north ; so she understood as well, and had anticipated that he would work it out.

Almost dizzy from the whirl of thought, Taren abruptly realised just how profoundly His Majesty trusted Lady Keladry. A _military_ trust had been implicit in his presence during the siege, but the scale of his landgrant, with the inclusion of the Tirrsmont mines, and the grant of monopoly on immortal work, were not the overgenerous reward they seemed to some but a political decision that acknowledged a longstanding neglect of the north ; it was surely as much a surrender of power as an enhancement of border security. And _then_ there was what had happened in Yaman, and the thought occurred that _she_ had been able to pursue her Guild’s justice while two rulers were content to look on, not just because she was god-touched and had immortal allies, but because she too was a ruler, whose assertion of power they had recognised. The Lioness’s words about the King being grumpy at _being outmatched, again_ came back to him, in mild qualification, but his thoughts were interrupted by an extraordinary rumbling noise from just over the crest of the slight rise they were climbing that made his horse skitter. He tensed, looking around as he controlled the animal, but as echoes faded Mrs Spinner’s clear voice rang out.

“That’s a basilisk’s rock-spell, my lord, everyone. There’s no threat.”

Feeling foolish, he took a breath, forcing himself to speak calmly. “Thank you, ma’am. The sergeant did say, but I confess it took me quite by surprise.”

He hadn’t been alone in that, but the horses were all under control, Var looking more intrigued than frightened, and as they topped the rise he saw a group of immortals — several basilisks and at least six ogres — perhaps a quarter-mile ahead. They had something the ogres seemed to be lifting and dropping again, but what it was he couldn’t guess. There were also a couple of very sturdy-looking wagons. Two hundred yards closer a small picket of soldiers in army maroon spanned the Road, one of whom jogged towards them, glancing over his shoulder every few steps, and from fifty yards out bellowed a warning.

“Next rumble coming, riders! Just about … now!”

Taren tightened the reins in time, glad of the warning for, past the crest, the sound was louder, shrieks audible within it. Several horses pranced, protesting, but none reared, and as the sound faded the soldier jogged up.

“Sorry for any problems, my lords and lady, riders. Roadworks. It’ll be a bit before there’s another rumble, though, so you’re free to go around. Ground’s firm.”

Var gave him an imploring glance, and Taren needed no persuading.

“Ah, thank you, corporal. But may we watch what they’re doing for a moment?”

“If you wishes, my lord, and so long as you heeds anything they say. Horses’ll need proper picketing, mind, until they get used to the noise.”

Taren wasn’t entirely sure anyone could get used to such a sound, but the royal groom coughed, and he looked over enquiringly.

“Some of the pool ’orses ’ave been trained to it, my lord. It don’t take long when nothing ’appens to ’em, and it’s best done sooner than not.”

Vesker nodded approval, and left his men with the grooms to help hold horses if it was needed, but came with Taren, Sam, and Var. Having established their identities the corporal came too, to make introductions, and Mrs Spinner tagged along, saying she’d heard of the stone roads Lady Kel was pioneering and was curious to see how it was done. Closer to, Taren saw that the wagons held coarse gravel, and the tool was a great wooden construction like a shallow roof, two flat sides spanning the whole road and meeting at a slight central peak, with three stout poles to serve as handles sticking up on each side. The immortals seemed to be taking a break while peering at the Road in front of them, and pressing it with their feet ; behind them, a flat rock surface stretched into the distance, sparkling in the morning light. A basilisk looked up from its examination, and came forward to meet them.

“Corporal Tanner?”

The voice was a fluting whisper that was somehow as sharply audible as any shout.

“The first curious travellers of the day, Spiir’aan. Lord Taren of Stone Mountain, with Lord Saman and Lady Varia. Their guard is Vesker. And Mrs Spinner, if you haven’t met. She was here before, for Lady Kel’s wedding.”

Whether it was a stare Taren didn’t know, but a basilisk’s look was intent.

“We were not introduced, but I am glad to be so now, Mrs Spinner. And to meet you, lords and lady of Stone Mountain, and guard Vesker. Your visit pleases the Protector, and so pleases us.”

Taren swallowed. “Thank you, ah, is Journeybasilisk Spiir’aan correct?”

He thought the basilisk was amused, but its whisper was unchanged.

“It is, Lord Taren, and I appreciate the courtesy, though I do not use rank unless I must. And you are welcome. We are about to start again, and I believe the process needs no explanation, but I will be happy to answer any questions afterwards. You must, though, stand well back. We channel the rock-spell tightly, always, but without mages to provide a shield, mortals are wise to be careful.”

That was unarguable, and even from a safe distance the process was indeed plain, allowing for the wonders of basilisks’ magic and ogres’ strength. Once a section of roadway had been inspected, and any larger ruts or potholes filled and flattened, ogres tipped gravel and shovelled it into a layer that was roughly even. As the basilisks lined up on either side the corporal waved a warning to the picket, and the sound of the spell thrashed the air, basso rumbles vibrating in Taren’s stomach as the thin shrieking within it brought his hands up to cover his ears. But his eyes were fixed on the gravel, which glowed and began to _ooze_ , individual pieces melting into rock-treacle. As the sound died away basilisks stepped swiftly back, and ogres lifted the wooden roof-thing, brought it forward, and after a second’s careful positioning leaned on it, hard ; then lifted and shifted it forward to repeat the process thrice more, until all the gravel had been treated. The corporal waved again, and a further spell, just as loud but sounding different in a way Taren couldn’t describe, made no visible difference but must re-set the rock, no longer gravel but a smooth stone surface.

Or not quite smooth, for as they went closer at Spiir’aan’s waved invitation Taren saw that at each edge there was a gutter, a shallow U-shape several inches wide. Beside him Var clapped her hands with excitement, and squatted for a moment, lowering her head almost to the ground to look sideways across the stone, before bouncing up again.

“That’s so _clever_. There’s a slight profile, so rainwater will run off into the gutters.” She turned, peering down the slope to where the road bridged a small stream, eyed the rise beyond, and turned back to Spiir’aan, who was looking at her with what seemed to be interest. The other immortals were listening too. “Does the gutter empty into the beck, Journeybasilisk Spiir’aan, sir?”

“It does, Lady Varia.”

“Don’t you get problems where the flows from each slope meet? With a cloudburst they must churn enough to worry even stone.”

“Sometimes, yes. That bridge is wide enough for each flow to be turned into the beck before they meet, but where there is a greater catchment, or slopes are steeper, we make larger spouts and use stronger stone.”

“What sort?”

“Granite or obsidian.”

Var blinked, frowned for a second, and gave the basilisk a blinding smile. “By petrifying? Carved in wood first?”

“Just so, Lady Varia. Carving stone would take too long, and is unnecessary.” Spiir’aan cocked his head a little. “You are swift to understand.”

Var blushed a little. “Journeyogre Elimiaju told me the Guild had been thinking about how to build better roads, Journeybasilisk Spiir’aan, but he didn’t know what they’d come up with, so I’ve been wondering. And the merchant who sold us some beautiful petrified ware told us basilisks could vary what stone they turned something into, and control colour. But I didn’t know you could melt and set stone as well as make it, and being able to shape proper gutters like that never crossed my mind.”

“It had not crossed ours, Lady Varia, until the Protector asked us and made it seem only common sense.”

One of the ogres gave a grunting laugh, grinning when the basilisk glanced at it and coming to join them. Taren expected a voice like Elimiaju’s, but it was much higher-pitched, almost a falsetto.

“Rainwater has to go somewhere and no-one likes puddles, so let’s have a bit of a slope and some nice gutters, please. Melt the gravel a bit, and a form with a petrified underside should do it.” The pitch dropped to a bass register. “Kuriaju’s expression was a wonder.”

Spiir’aan again seemed amused. “You are getting better at the word choice, Ruriaju, but you are no true mimic.”

“Nor wish to be, Spiir’aan. But I’m right about Kuriaju’s expression. As he says, mortals, I am Ruriaju.”

The siblings received a deep ogre nod, and Taren returned a short bow before making introductions, including Vesker and Mrs Spinner. Var had been waiting impatiently.

“Journeyogre Ruriaju, sir, you’re saying Lady Keladry designed all this _herself_?”

“No, Kuriaju designed the form, Lady Varia, with the master carpenter who made it, but the whole was the Protector’s idea.” The ogre grinned widely. “And delivered much as I said. She is very good at surprising us with the obvious. And she is rather taken with the idea of better roads everywhere.”

“Are you going to do the whole of the Great North Road?”

“In time, Lord Saman.” Spiir’aan gave what Taren thought amounted to a shrug. “Beyond Bearsford it is a crown responsibility, but a first contract has been signed. There will be a delay, though, as the Protector and His Majesty have agreed that the new Pilgrims’ Way from Mindelan has priority.”

Taren visualised maps he’d pored over. “A new road to New Hope?”

“Indeed.”

“Across the angle, instead of having to go via Frasrlund?”

“Just so, Lord Taren. It is long since we could study mortal pilgrimage, but after all that happened in Yaman the Protector believes many will come, with young and old both thick among them. The new road will shorten their journey by many miles, and can be completed in little more time than it would take to improve the existing ones.”

“We’d be building all the wayhouses and tea-rooms from the ground up anyway.”

Ruriaju’s face was deadpan, but his eyes weren’t, and Taren managed to keep his voice level, grateful both for getting to know Elimiaju a little and for the limited reading he’d done about Yaman and its ways.

“So I’d imagined, Journeyogre Ruriaju. Are the tea-rooms to be in the traditional design?”

“Haven’t seen one yet.” The ogre smiled. “But I expect so, whatever it is.”

It was Taren’s turn to be deadpan. “Open sides, special matting on the floor, and three rooves.”

Ruriaju blinked, and Spiir’aan gave a hiss of laughter.

“Your expression reminds me of Kuriaju’s.”

The ogre laughed. “Not nearly, but I’m hoist well enough. _Three_ rooves, Lord Taren?”

“Truly. I saw a picture. Or one that’s deeply fretted, I suppose. But we should be getting on.”

“The Protector awaits you, certainly.”

That comment stayed with Taren as they offered thanks, made polite farewells, and remounted, deepening a feeling of hollowness as a meeting long desired and feared became ever more imminent. At the bridge he slowed with Var, Sam, and Vesker to look briefly at the spouts that drained the gutters, and climbing the farther slope welcomed Vesker’s cautious enquiries about immortals having senses of humour and Yamanis some very odd ideas. With Commander Svein’s advice about Immortals’ Intoxication and being practical, Var and Sam were drawn in, with Mrs Spinner and others, and the conversation was interesting, reflecting a doubleness Taren felt. Ruriaju’s jests had been more obvious than Elimiaju’s sly humour, but if he had grown almost used to ogres, and had liked Spiir’aan with relief that basilisks could also be amused and amusing, he was nevertheless conscious, as all were, of a growing disorientation, and a rising sense of wonder that felt almost dreamlike. Memory of the way the gravel had melted and flowed fuelled it, twining with thoughts of what an ogre might have heard it saying, and underscored by the ring of the horses’ hooves on the stone they rode so swiftly and smoothly — itself a vision of power, stretching away into the distance before them ; even the neatly screened latrine pits they passed at regular intervals plucked at it, for however they were plainly practical they were also both innovation and a warning not to foul the verges and woods. _All_ things seemed to speak here, whispering of the power towards which they travelled, that already encompassed them.

A simple but very tasty lunch at a wayhouse of austere but startling design, the half-way point between Bearsford and Greenwood Forks, did not help either his hollowness or the wonder. The external walls were plain, but of ashlar more finely dressed and tightly laid than he’d ever seen, and sported glassed windows, while the roof covering the wayhouse with its flanking latrine and stable in a single low-pitched span was, they were cheerfully told, petrified canvas ; it certainly had areas of greater translucency serving as skylights, and no joins were visible in the taut sweep of what was now stone. The keepers, a husband and wife born in Arenaver who’d come north at the invitation of a soldier-friend serving at New Hope, apparently within weeks of the Peace Treaty being signed, had seen it built and were happy to tell a tale of ogres hauling canvas taut while basilisks petrified it from inside, and of the whole exterior structure going up in a single day. That the interior woodwork, partitioning sleeping spaces, the keepers’ apartment, and kitchen from a communal messhall and hearth, had taken another two was not much of a qualification, nor the laughing observation that Lady Kel liked getting things done, and for all they thought long, immortals weren’t much given to dawdling either.

The paradox, or irony, of such age and haste offered more food for thought as they rode on. New Hope was palpably _new_ , road and buildings yet unweathered, and everyone’s consciousness of sweeping difference intense, but it also seemed timeless, and so as old as it was fresh. The wooded hills to either side were gathering height, and the Road wound between them, crossing streams and dry gullies on elegant bridges with solid parapets for safety that the road-crew had clearly repaired and improved as they passed. Cuttings were rarer, but clean, sheer rock indicated recent widening, and an excited Var wondered if it had been for carters’ convenience or as a handy source of gravel ; or both, as Sam promptly suggested. Taren passed the next few miles entertaining a vision of a poached and muddy road passing through too narrow a cutting, and Lady Keladry waving immortal magic at it to make stone flow from cliffs to roadway, and solve both problems. Two birds with one stone, you could say. He wasn’t sure whether it made him want to laugh or cry at the efficient absurdity, but found an unexpected rightness and satisfaction in the phrase :  _efficient absurdity_ seemed to cover a lot at New Hope, as Var immediately and Sam more uncertainly agreed.

Soon after leaving the wayhouse they began to encounter traffic heading south. Well-teamed ox-carts carried loads of the same fine ashlar, most light but some much darker, and mule-trains packed sealed wooden crates or fat panniers. An army mailman and occasional riders in blue-grey livery were among them, all offering polite greetings by name while staring with some curiosity. Yet another thing that had not quite occurred to Taren was that he — they — would be objects of general curiosity, as they had been to nobles and merchants in Corus, but Spiir’aan had said their visit pleased the Protector, so it must have been discussed ; and of course Joren’s miserable tale and sorry end must be as deeply known at New Hope as they could be anywhere. He had thought his hollow feeling only to do with meeting _her_ , whom Joren had so wrongly persecuted and foully sought to kill, by whom his father had somehow been broken, but it expanded easily to entering a fief and Citadel where by all accounts she was all but worshipped by liegers who had every reason to despise the name of Stone Mountain. Yet the rightness he’d felt about  _efficient absurdity_ returned with memories of Svein telling him his letter had moved her, and Sir Alanna’s assurance that _she_ understood ; the latter bringing with it that other remark about being allergic to gratitude. The pressures of Stone Mountain for six months had left him grateful to pass many to Svein for a while ; what must it be to endure the pressures New Hope generated, without relief? He had known the weight of the gods’ silence but never the weight of their speech, and had no doubt whatever which was the greater, by far.

His thoughts were jolted back to the present as what had seemed only another rise turned out to be the southern rim of the Greenwoods Valley, and a panorama unfolded before him, lit by the westering sun. Greenwoods Fork might have started as such, when the Greenwoods trail became the Great North Road, angling north-east down the valley towards the towering wall of the fin _she_ had stood on, but it had become a crossroads, what must be the new Pilgrims’ Way heading south-west before bending south over a saddle and disappearing. Around the waymeet buildings clustered, smoke rising from a forge and the chimneys of an inn ; a large stable had an unfenced pasture with a fair herd of horses grazing, and the fourth building had an official look, a flag fluttering over it. Taren swallowed as he realised that several centaurs watched over the horses, but his eye was drawn back down valley, following the stripes of terracing along the far hillsides and down to a hive of activity on the valley floor towards the great fin, where a tracery of something was rising into the sky. Many people — beings — seemed to be watching, but it was too far to make out detail, and as they descended the greater visibility of Greenwood Forks reclaimed his attention. Saving the inn, which was tiled, all its buildings had the same petrified canvas rooves and air of newness ; traffic was coming up the valley as well as down the former tip of the Great North Road, and though some kept going some paused, so activity was brisk. Hammers rang, horses and mules were being re-shod or unsaddled, and people ate and drank at tables in the gardens of the inn ; there were also — Taren swallowed again as sunlight flashed on steel — what must be stormwings perched beside them, apparently in conversation. Then they too were lost to view, and he was looking only at a busy crossroads, the gleam of new stone the only indication of anything strange.

Vesker dropped back to range alongside him. “From what that sergeant said, my lord, I’m thinking we should check for a message? Under that flag, most like.”

Taren agreed, and after dismounting himself, seeing Sam had an eye to Var, he offered Mrs Spinner a steadying hand as she landed and stretched her back with a faint groan.

“Unless there’s a message we’ll be going straight on, I’m afraid. Do you need to rest a little, ma’am?”

“No, no, my lord.” She smiled crookedly. “Older bones seem to feel it more, and days in the saddle add up, but it’s invigorating to be here at last. And it’s not so far now, as I recall.”

Her eyes went to something over his shoulder, and Taren felt a pressure on his back, feeling his body stiffen as he turned to see a group of beings following Vesker towards him. Mailed ogres carrying oversize sledgehammers flanked the group on one side, Scanrans with braided hair and beards who would otherwise look tall bore gleaming spiked double axes on the other. Sparrows fluttered in the air above them, circling. Vesker had a frozen expression, and the woman who was centremost, her tunic embroidered with an owl and crossed glaives within a triple circle, possessed a fluid grace of movement that made the sword at her hip and glaive in her hand extensions of her body. She radiated power as a fire did heat, and both Var and Sam were rigid as he offered a deep bow and straightened to meet hazel eyes that seemed to look right through him, weighing what they saw. A bow was returned, and his mouth dried.

“Lord Taren, be welcome to New Hope.” The voice was lower than he’d imagined and infinitely warmer, the face attractive, if guarded, and the hazel eyes … twinkled would be wrong, but thoughts of stars and silver turned in his mind. “You’ve made good time from Bearsford.”

The Scanrans’ axes were glittering in the sun, and a sparrow’s shadow flicked across him.

“Countess Keladry, Clanchief Hléoburh, how could we not on such excellent roads?” His voice sounded very distant. “And thank you for all your care of us. From the Lioness’s visit to the briefing last night at Bearsford, all has been made smooth. I hope nothing untoward has brought you here to meet us sooner than we had expected.”

He didn’t think he’d said anything amiss, but she grinned as she shook her head.

“Not at all, my lord. I’m just bunking off, really. Everyone’s watching Geraint and his team building the new greenhouse, but one dome’s much the same as another, frankly, and Alder needed a ride so I ignored Mandrinal’s pained cries about overdue paperwork.” She gestured. “All these new bodyguards of mine need the exercise too. The innkeep’s bringing some fruit twilsey that’ll clear your throats, and some _umeboshi_ , Yamani pickled plums I have a weakness for, but then let’s press on, if Mrs Spinner’s back will forgive me.”

The seamstress greeted Lady Kel with a smile, agreeing, and Taren hastened to indicate his own acceptance before introducing a nervy Sam and Var, both gravely welcomed. He let Vesker introduce the guards, who received brisk instructions about anyone armed being held to a stricter standard of behaviour, and going unarmed when off-duty, with an invitation to join any weapons training sessions that interested them ; grooms were also greeted, with words about the availability of animal healers and a warning about an area in the valley where yew was grown. Ogres and Scanrans were also named, but clearly considered themselves on duty and merely offered brief nods. The twilsey arrived, welcome to his dry throat, and he cautiously tried a pickled plum Countess Keladry offered, discovering why she liked them, and watching with fascination as she let sparrows take some seed from her hand, one perching on her shoulder with a soft peep. Then he was back in the saddle, glancing at the wide-eyed expressions on Sam’s and Var’s faces as they fell in behind _her_ , Scanrans and jogging ogres flanking them all, and wondering what he must look like himself.


	5. Chapter Four -- New Hope

**Four : New Hope**

_New Hope, 26 April–1 May 464 HE_

 

DESPITE keeping to a brisk trot the Countess offered commentary on what they could see as they headed down valley, and they drank it in. The road was wide enough to ride four abreast, save when they had to pass larger wagons and she paced ahead before dropping back again. The scale of terracing on the northern hillsides was impressive, adding tens of acres of arable land, and there were scores of doorways and windows in the southern cliffs ; a steady stream of pedestrians used a path along their base, and Taren revised his estimate of the valley’s population up sharply. The rich bottomland was fully ploughed and planted, while ogres tended terraces, weeding and repairing retaining walls ; to watch them fitting dry stone was, apparently, a marvel, and recalling the wayhouse Taren imagined it was. Some three miles down valley the northern hills and woods edged closer to the Road where a wide trail came in ; there were some canvas-roofed ashlar cottages, older children woodgathering along the trail eaves, or minding younger ones at play, and a fair-sized farrier’s smithy where a gelding was having a shoe clinched and other horses waited. Surprised by its proximity to the smithy at Greenwoods Fork Taren ventured a question, and the Countess gave a wry smile.

“You’d be right, my lord, except that I fine people who don’t look after their animals properly sufficiently severely that doing so is cheaper, and hooves as well as cargo are inspected when you pass the Citadel, so there’s a certain late demand hereabouts. And that trail goes to Fort Mastiff, so a farrier’s handy for the army couriers.”

“Ah. You own the smithies, my lady?”

“I do. The smiths and farriers pay a nominal rent and tithe from profits.” She gestured. “It’s the same with taverns and shops along the cliff. I started _The Pilgrims’ Progress_ that way mostly because folk needed somewhere to go of an evening, and a second because I had another wounded veteran who needed a job, but Connac’s made such a success of _The Bivouac_ that I’ve stuck to the model. And it gives me some control over what they’re all called, thank the gods.”

Var leaned forward. “What do you veto, my lady?”

“Anything with _Lady Kel’s_ or _Captain Dom’s_ in it for starters, Lady Varia. And anything too rude, though I confess to some regret over _The Stormwing and Nappy_. Queen Barzha was quite amused, and Amourta thought it was hysterical, but I don’t allow immortals to be used like that unless they’re paid for it.”

“Like the Guild rules.”

“Exactly. The innkeep did offer to tithe to the Stone Tree Nation, but I decided I didn’t want stormwings having an incentive to get people drunk, either.”

He saw Var blink before she pushed the thought aside.

“So what have you allowed, my lady?”

“Well, just now _The Fewer Vocatives_ comes to mind for the next, but the ones already open are _The Meeting Place_ , in the middle, which is sensible enough, and _The King’s Head_ back towards Greenwoods Fork. I don’t much care for that one, but the Scanrans thought it just as well as funny so I let it go.” She shook her head. “Ogres like beer too, and there’s a common room in Immortals’ House that’s halfway to a tavern. Kuriaju’s been teasing me about names they’re considering. _The Mortal Surprise_ seems to be favourite, closely followed by _Junior’s Jokehouse_.”

Connections clicked in Taren’s head, with that hint about informality of address. “Junior is the griffin kit?”

“He certainly is. You know about him?”

“His reputation precedes him. The briefing at Bearsford mentioned him, and Duke Turomot said he was, um, an impudent menace.”

“That covers it. He’s on his best behaviour, just, having annoyed everyone while I was away, but it won’t last. If he wasn’t distracted by Geraint’s experiment he’d probably have come to see us already.”

They were approaching the soaring and improbable framework of the building under construction, surrounded by a cheerful crowd, and had to slow to let people stand aside. The Countess gave an order, not shouting but in a voice that easily cut through the noise, and they pulled up.

“I’ll show you properly tomorrow, but Geraint thinks the design he and the ogres worked out for Lord Sakuyo’s temple can be used for a glass greenhouse big enough to grow fruit trees.”

Var squeaked her shock. “Glass? But won’t wind or snow collapse it?”

“Yes, if it were a rectangle with a roof, but not as a dome, Geraint says. He did lots of sums I couldn’t follow, and both Kuriaju and Numair agreed.” She shrugged. “Anything new’s a risk, but having our own oranges and lemons is worth one.”

Var’s face scrunched up as she thought. “Heat?”

“Basilisks heat stone blocks, and Numair’s done some spellwork on the glass.” A sparrow landed on the Countess’s shoulder, and she reached up to stroke it. “We’ll see. Kawit, the opal dragon who keeps immortal apprentices in line, has interesting stories about a pre-Thanic way of using hot air from fires elsewhere, but I’d rather avoid smoke.”

“Oh.”

Var’s dazed sound rather summed up his own feelings, Taren thought, as they resumed a slower progress. Absurd efficiency was the least of it, but there was no time to brood as the fin reared before them, and the crenellated wall of the corral became visible, ringed by a moat. More construction was underway along the base of the fin, behind an outlet sough for the moat ; long buildings were interspersed with shorter ones, and though most were only framed one already had a Yamani triple-roof tiled in alternating shades of red and green.

“Those will be facilities for pilgrims — dormitories, mostly, with a messhall, healer-house, and tea-room, so there are some familiar sights to help keep everyone calm. And with some Yamanis here to help already, we did the tea-room first. I brought the tiles back with me.”

Taren tried to calculate the capacity of the dormitories, and mentally whistled. “You expect many Yamanis to come, then, my lady? Because of, ah, recent events?”

Too late he remembered about informality, and that the Lioness had said not to ask _her_ , but she didn’t seem to mind.

“Some were coming anyway, to see the pictures and Drachifethe, but yes.” Those hazel eyes examined him. “You sounded very tactful, my lord. I dread to think what tales you’ve heard about those recent events. Or has the King’s oath kept them half-way sensible?” Taren couldn’t stop a huff of laughter, and she smiled. “I know, but believe me, there’s exaggerated and there’s plain silly.”

“I’m not sure how one could exaggerate the sworn truth of the King’s account, my lady, but Elimiaju added some interesting details.”

“Oh?”

“The _Stone Fools_?”

“Huh. Tobe will be pleased.” She smiled again, and Taren saw pride in it. “He invented a Yamani word by translating the Tortallan phrase, _Sekkinukesaku_ , and the Emperor adopted it. You can’t say it doesn’t fit.”

“No, indeed. But we were, ah, struck by the, well, deadpan humour.”

“Oh yes. Tobe was an old man very young, and it shows in things like that.” Sorrow laced her voice. “All the children here during the war saw and heard far too much. Many still have nightmares, though Lord Gainel eases them, bless him, and the stormwings. If one wants to talk, fine, but don’t ask them questions needlessly, please.”

Veteran children _had_ occurred to Taren, from talking of Lord Tobeis, if not personal care from the Dream King and stormwings, however that worked, and he nodded.

“I hear you, my lady. And though this isn’t the place, we siblings have ghosts of our own.”

Her glance was keen. “So I gather, and I knew you must have. And yes, later. But know, all of you, that you owe _me_ no debts. None.”

Taren found his thoughts clear. “There are many kinds of debt, my lady, and besides what all Tortallans must feel for your victory here, and what you made of it, we of Stone Mountain have a personal debt it matters to us to acknowledge.” He swallowed. “Acknowledging it bears on some matters Elimiaju urged me to consider about stone and fire.”

“It does?” She considered him as she eased closer to pass a wide cart carrying great hexagons of metal-rimmed glass, carefully padded. “Well, that sounds more interesting. He was talking to Olimiariaju in Old Ogric for a while the other day, and I wondered what that was about. But we need to be in double column from here.”

Elimiaju having a spellmirror himself was another thing Taren hadn’t deduced but, as they reformed, belatedly thought he should have. The Road passed the jagged end of the fin, the Greenwoods burbling through rapids and a great splinter of rock that must have fallen from the cliff sticking up from the futher bank, but as he tried to take in his first sight of the grey glacis and citadel rising above him, walltops catching a strange light blazing from the far side of the fin, they turned over a stone bridge, and the road beyond, if solidly paved, showed why the double column was necessary. Pedestrians and riders were coming the other way, and as before all gave them appraising looks while raising hands in greetings the Countess returned with an easy wave. At the foot of the glacis a wooden bridge spanned a moat, memorably railed along its near side with regular signs declaring in Tortallan, Common, Scanran, and (he assumed) Yamani _kanji_ that **Swimming Here Kills** , but Taren needed to concentrate to turn sharply and carefully ascend the roadway. Rising on its straight, he couldn’t help thinking about the thousands who had died trying to enter, and wondered if the Countess yet could, or if every arrival and departure remained burdened with memory, but her back showed nothing. What Master Orchan had to say of turning, narrowing, and rising abruptly acquired new clarity, and the Honesty Gate loomed in front of them, armed and armoured guards saluting as sparrows swirled.

Taren didn’t wait to be asked, and once under the lintel stated his name and good will towards all beings at New Hope. Sam and Var echoed him, followed by Mrs Spinner, and while Vesker and the other guards and grooms took their turns he looked around. The gatehouse was as massive a structure as he’d seen outside Corus, the arched passage through it a good thirty feet long, with arrow-loops punctuating petrified walls, murder-holes above and the outline of a pit-trap visible in the roadway ; his gaze rose again to find hazel eyes watching him with a look that included irony.

“Redundant now, I devoutly hope, but crucial then. Most successful besiegers come through the gate, not over the walls. And we were just realising what basilisks mean for architecture.”

Var’s head was swivelling. “Did you petrify the supports before adding the second stage, my lady, or build in wood and petrify it all at once?”

“ _I_ didn’t petrify anything, Lady Varia, basilisks did. But yes, having stone foundations and first stage meant the second could use much heavier timbers. And though elsewhere the petrification is often only a skin, to stop fire-arrows, this is solid stone. I understood from Elimiaju you were interested in mining, but it’s all architecture, I take it?”

“More or less, my lady. I like to know how things are done.” Var looked down. “And I’m sorry about my wording. I didn’t mean to imply—”

“Not a problem.” The Countess waved a hand. “I’m just a little wary of people saying _I_ did things, when they mean that many beings laboured to do it, or forget that a god was involved.”

Taren had heard merchants and nobles in Corus say that Lady Keladry had struck down Torhelm, omitting three gods from their reckoning, and filed away her reaction to Var’s slip with her insistence in the ‘Note’ on the distinction between earned leeway and license. Her reported allergy to gratitude also began to make more sense, but with the last groom through the Honesty Gate they moved on and a different bustle developed. The ogres and Scanrans seemed to be off-duty within the walls, and were dismissed with thanks until training next morning, while two sparrows perched on Lady Keladry’s shoulders and the rest headed for the trees on the central green. The archway’s end gave tantalising glimpses of buildings and people, but once he emerged the interest of the busy level stretched out below him, including the distant shapes of dragons, could not stop his eyes being drawn to the source of the strange light, which had a pleasant warmth.

“It’s too late for a tour tonight, but before you ask the runes on the fin are _chtheorth_ and _yr_ , the fire-bow, marking the Dragons’ Embassy to the Guild and Mortal Realm. They’re icelights, but the extra is because Diamondflame added sunbird feathers.” She raised her voice, so Vesker and others could hear. “Emergencies aside, this gate’s closed to anything that can’t use the wicket from last bell to dawn, and while you are free to come and go as you will, subject to orders, everyone’s counted out and back, here and at the Corral Gate, so we always have an accurate count.”

Taren and Vesker nodded acceptance of another efficiency, and she led them down a wide ramp to the main level, dismounting by a large stableblock. Extra grooms were at hand, with some older lads to carry saddlebags and the packhorses’ loads, and a uniformed man hurried down from the gatehouse.

“Sorry not have met you at the Gate, Lady Kel. I was up at the Eyrie.”

“Gawping at Geraint’s greenhouse, Uinse?”

He grinned at her. “Guilty as charged, Lady Kel. _I_ ’aven’t seen no round buildin’s before, even if they’re old ’at to you and Master Geraint, and why it don’t fall down’s a mystery to me.”

“Think of an arch going sideways, if that helps.”

“Not much. Oh well, it’s pretty enough.”

She introduced him as Captain of the Citadel, and yet another set of shrewd eyes assessed them. The Lower City accent went with the man’s history as a redeemed convict, but he too radiated authority and took charge of Vesker and the guards, explaining they’d be in the barracks one up from Lady Kel’s house, and food was in the messhall with sittings at the seventh and eighth bells, before inviting them to weapons training at dawn. Leaving them to it, with thanks for service and company on the road, the siblings and Mrs Spinner followed Lady Kel along a raised path, past a large building with clerks still visible in lit windows, a wide side-path that led to a doorway in the fin, and a whole row of barracks. Off-duty soldiers sitting outside called soft greetings to Lady Kel, looking at her guests with interest, and silent stormwings perched on rooves also eyed them. She acknowledged all but didn’t offer introductions until a white shape the size of a _very_ large hound bounced up to her, snout raised, and Taren got his first proper look at a dragon. Its scales glowed in the strange light, hints of colour flickering.

“No, I haven’t seen Kit, Icefall, but she’s due at dinner in an hour, to meet my guests, so she can’t be far. Try the Corral — Daine might be seeing to the pregnant mares. Meanwhile, these are Lord Taren of Stone Mountain, his siblings Lord Saman and Lady Varia, and Mrs Elma Spinner. And this is Dragon Apprentice Lady Icefall, better known as Scamp.”

_Hello. I am happy to meet you all. Have you travelled well? You will like it here — it is very interesting, with many things to do, and the new chillies Skysong brought back from Yaman are excellent. Where is Stone Mountain? Are not all mountains made of stone?_

Taren blinked as the rattle of words in his head stopped. “Ah, thank you, Lady Icefall, we did, I’m sure it is, and we shall. Stone Mountain is a week’s ride east and a little north of Corus, and yes, so far as I know, but ours has particularly good stone for building.”

_Oh. That makes sense, I suppose. You have come a long way. I will look at a map. But I must find Skysong, because Kawit wants to talk to her. Excuse me._

It — she — bounced away down the path in front of them, and Lady Keladry grinned as they followed.

“Well handled, my lord. She _is_ a scamp, but a happy one, and works hard. Don’t go near those chillies, though, if you value your tongues — what dragons call tasty is a _lot_ hotter than most mortals can deal with.”

Taren imagined it was. “Thank you for the warning, my lady. Are all the dragon apprentices that, um, excitable?”

“Fortunately not, though they find the Mortal Realm stimulating. But Scamp’s only two hundred and some, and missed Kit — Skysong — while we were in Yaman. Now, your guards are in this barracks, my Scanrans having taken over the next one, and you are all in the guest-wing, here.”

They had come to an imposing building in the inner corner, below the gleaming icelight runes, and Tomas Weaver’s description had been exact. The whole resembled a U with a wide base and the further arm folded in, encosing a sunken lawn studded with tiny flowers and crossed by a path to a door in the middle of the base. The nearer arm was the guest-wing, with its own door, where a well-dressed girl of about Var’s age waited for them, curtseying as the Countess introduced them.

“Loesia sees to the guest-wing for me. She’ll show you your rooms and where everything is, and I’ll see you for dinner at the seventh bell, in the front-wing. It’s half-formal this evening, to introduce you to some senior beings, but only half. And forgive me for abandoning you now, but I need to feed the twins before changing myself.”

“Of course, my lady.”

She was already striding down the path across the lawn, sparrows flitting around her, and Taren followed his siblings and Mrs Spinner into the guest-wing. There were, he learned, other guests in residence, besides Master Numair and the Godborn, with their children and Lady Skysong, who had a permanent suite — an older mage from the City of the Gods, visiting Master Numair’s seminar, General Vanget, newly arrived on haMinchi clan business, and tonight only an officer returning to Mastiff from Northwatch. And besides the sparrows, they might encounter the dog Jump, and a variety of cats, all knowing animals. The layout was simple, with a central corridor on each floor, but there was a common-room for guests in the middle of the ground floor — they were shown a comfortable but presently empty room — and their own were just beyond it, generously proportioned with, astonishingly, both hot and cold water on tap. Baths had been drawn, with a maid assigned to Var and an older man for him and Sam, who already had clothes unpacked and airing, but before Miss Loesia left Taren asked her what ‘half-formal’ meant in terms of dress, and received a dimpled smile.

“Only changed and neat, my lord. Lady Kel don’t like having to dress up unless it’s holiday best for everyone. She and Captain Dom eat in the messhall, usually, still in their day tunics.”

He thanked her, struck by her confidence and the easy protocol, and after agreeing with Sam and Var to meet in the common-room as soon as they were ready, gratefully retired to bathe. Although he had as yet little beard he looked a bit ragged from the days of travel, and was glad to let the man Eskry, who had been an army servant, shave him and trim his hair a little, before sending him to see to Sam and dressing himself in good breeches and one of the Stone Mountain tunics Mrs Weaver had made. He checked his appearance, and the face looking back at him seemed older than it had in Corus, as well it might ; he certainly felt it, though he had hardly begun to digest what he’d seen today. For a moment he contemplated the gifts he’d brought, feeling they should be given promptly but not wanting to make a display, and encountering Eskry as he stepped out, indicated the two crates and asked him if he might take their contents respectively to the Count and Countess, with their compliments and thanks for hospitality, and to the senior basilisk, ogre, and spidren. Eskry nodded, looking pleased, and said he’d see to it directly, so Taren continued to the common-room, finding Sam talking enthusiastically to a weatherbeaten man with cropped hair, whom he introduced as General Vanget.

Taren bowed. “An honour to meet you, my lord.”

“Wish others thought so, my lord. And it’s interesting to meet you, too. Heard you were coming this way to meet Kel.”

“It seemed wise.” Taren digested that _Kel_ , wondering when command had become friendship. “You’re on family rather than army business, Miss Loesia said?”

“I am, yes. Army can do without me for a bit, Kel and the gods be thanked, so I’ve had my feet up over the winter. Then she got back from Yaman with some engineers she says can show us how to make the Vassa navigable from sea to headwaters, so my brother asked me to come and have a proper listen.” He rolled his eyes, making Taren grin. “It’s plainly impossible, but that’s never stopped Kel before and I don’t suppose it will now.” Taren looked round as Var came in with Mrs Spinner and an army captain in maroon. “Ah, there you are, Brendon. And who’s this?”

Introductions were made, and after Miss Loesia and a younger girl introduced as Gydo offered trays with glasses of cordial and delicious pickles to nibble, conversation developed. Var joined Sam talking to the General, while Brendon of Fenrigh admitted to being an army advocate, dealing with some stranger effects of the Countess having a peacetime army command even larger than her fief. Taren found himself intrigued.

“Had the case been here or at Steadfast or Mastiff, my lord, she could have ruled on it by fiat, but as it was Northwatch we needed a fuller army proceeding. For now, anyway. The Army Council might agree to a procedural change to keep it all simpler.”

“I’m not sure I understand how the problem arises, captain.”

“Army code versus noble rule, my lord. Code has precedence in an active zone in wartime, but not otherwise. Lady Kel is ranking officer for the whole northern district outside haMinchi lands, and bound to enforce code equitably, but within her own fief has certain powers of overrule. It gets complicated quickly, but this would have qualified.”

“What was the case? If you can say?”

“Man on a charge for refusing a corporal’s order that should never have been given. We got the right result but had to go a long way round.”

“Ah. Good. And the corporal?”

“Will not be promoted any time soon, and will find himself in much hotter water if he ever does it again.” They exchanged smiles. “And what brings you north, my lord?”

Taren cited his Guild business, wanting icelights making sense to everyone who’d seen them, and mining safety being a matter it turned out Brendon knew something about, as there was an army presence at the Tirrsmont mines and he’d seen what basilisks and ogres had done there. That carried them until Miss Loesia reappeared to ask them if they’d step across, seventh bell being imminent. As they went out they were joined by the visiting mage, a white-haired man with deep-set eyes, wearing an embroidered robe, who introduced himself as Master Sternross and seemed preoccupied. Miss Loesia led the way, going round to the main entrance of the front-wing rather than through the house or across the lawn. They climbed wide and beautifully curving steps, patterned in lighter and darker rock, towards an imposing set of doors that gave onto a small hall with further doors to left and right. Miss Loesia took them left, and more wonders assailed his eyes.

The room was large, easily holding the long table and the mixed group standing at the far end by a fireplace, and besides a dozen mortals there were three ogres, two basilisks with a youngling, a dragon smaller than Lady Icefall but just as animated, and two spidrens, one so big it had to be Quenuresh. But it was the three large paintings stretching down the inner wall that arrested Taren’s gaze, not only for the glowing colours and exquisite detail : the nearest showed the sally that had killed King Maggur, against whose throat Lady Keladry’s glaive rested, pointing to stormwings coming in behind the kneeling Scanran ; behind her a column of riders showed faces he recognised, the Lioness and Lords Wyldon and Imrah, before becoming less distinct — and yet within the blurring of distance and dust he could see his father, always slightly to the side of where he looked. Stunned whispers from Var and Sam told him they saw it too, and as he stared a cool voice made him start.

“Whose ghost do you see, Lord of Stone Mountain?”

The girl looking up at him was perhaps ten, with long, light brown hair barely controlled in a loose braid, but her dark green eyes were far older, and saw right through him.

“My father’s, but he is no ghost, unless news has yet to reach me.”

“He lives, yet is dead to the world. You see him as he wishes he had been. There is nothing to fear.” The green eyes flickered, a more childish enthusiasm showing. “Come and meet people, then we can eat.”

Taren swallowed, seeing Var and Sam come to the same realisation.

“You are Lady Irnai, the seer?”

“Just Irnai, Lady Varia. Come on.”

Master Sternross, Taren noticed, had been listening and looked thoroughly disapproving, but the girl ignored him and a string of introductions demanded his attention. The spidrens were Quenuresh and Aldoven, who were indeed harder on the stomach, but well-spoken, and reassuring in alluding to Macarron’s approval of him ; the ogres were Masterminer Kuriaju, intrigued by Var, his wife Meliaju, and the bard Olimiariaju Earfiller, clearly older and with rumblingly slow speech ; the dragon was Lady Skysong, who seemed to become more restrained with the introduction, looking at them intently ; and the basilisks were Var’istaan and St’aara, with St’aara’s son Amiir’aan, who stood close to Skysong, sometimes touching her shoulder. Those names were no problem to remember, nor among mortals the tall, dark-skinned Master Numair Salmalín and the godborn Wildmage, Mistress Daine Weirynsra, her hair a great cloud ; both seemed easy-going, smiling welcomes and asking about their journey. Uinse they’d already met, while Lord Tobeis was Scanran-fair and like Irnai, though in a different way, possessed of a gaze that was not a child’s and a certain restraint, despite his surprised thanks for the belt and sheath. Distracted, Taren had to concentrate to fix other names — Mistress Heliana, Lady Keladry’s private clerk, Mistress Fanche and Master Saefas, Stewards of the Citadel and Greenwoods Valley, and Masterminer Petrin with his wife Ana. General Vanget seemed to know everyone, but Brendon was also being introduced, and while Master Sternross must have met the immortals before he was clearly uneasy in their presence, as in Irnai’s.

Lord Tobeis was assuring all that his Ma and Da would be down very shortly, just as soon as the twins stopped fussing, when they appeared. Lady Keladry’s change of clothing was only a fresh tunic, matching Count Domitan’s, and Taren found himself puzzled by the older man, at once bluffly welcoming, at ease despite his noticeable limp as he thanked them kindly for the wine and linens, and underlyingly wary, as Lady Skysong was. Watching them greet others he saw the Count’s wariness return in a lesser degree for Master Sternross but no-one else, though he had a slight fish-eye for Mrs Spinner, making her grin, and Taren realised it was a protectiveness of _her_ , a concern for the demands others might — would — make of her, that she would be too generous to refuse but might be headed off at the pass. What problem the mage presented he had no idea, but clearly those close to Lady Keladry thought matters of Stone Mountain might be more painful for her than her own demeanour suggested.

They were soon seated, the siblings flanking Count and Countess side-by-side at one end, while Quenuresh, Aldoven, and adult basilisks took the other — a practical issue, given their size. Amir’aan and Skysong had adapted chairs, and the ogres’ had been strengthened, but with those allowances there seemed no particular order, and conversation was lively and varied. Mistress Heliana was taking the chance to get a briefing from Brendon about his case, Uinse listening in, while Master Numair and Mistress Daine dealt with Master Sternross, whose tone slid between querulous and plaintive. What was happening at the farther end of the table Taren couldn’t tell, and he, Sam, and Var were kept busy by excellent soup with crusty rolls, and by the Count and Countess, talk going after some politeness to the road-building technique. Var’s enthusiasm mellowed the Count’s wariness, and it was clear his military experiences of muddy delays informed his pleasure at the efficiency of a properly drained roadway.

Miss Gydo and other older children were serving and clearing, and Taren saw the Countess note with a faint smile his automatic thanks each time one attended him. The main course was the most succulent boar he’d ever tasted, with equally good vegetables, served in larger and spicier portions for the ogres, and small bowls of sparkling black stone for the basilisks. A lull in conversation as boar was savoured and stone crunched was interrupted by Master Sternross, still querulous, appealing across the table to General Vanget for support.

“But surely you see how horribly dangerous this mixing of magics can be, my lord? Even Numair says he can’t tell what synergies may develop.”

Vanget’s northern burr sounded harder, but he remained affable. “And why not wonderfully dangerous, Master Mage? I doubt the City of the Gods’ll be giving up its new icelights anytime soon, any more than Ferghal or I will. You couldn’t prise the sentries away from their mesh-helms with both hands, nor any sailors who’ve got one, I dare say. And those lifting-spell things have any number of uses, military and civilian. What are you calling them, Numair?”

“It’s being discussed, Vanget, but hasn’t been decided.”

“Mmm. Leading contenders?”

Master Numair grinned. “It’s dragons’ and stormwings’ hovering spell, so I suggested _hovers_ , but I’m told there are places where that means something rude.” Vanget snorted, and Taren made a note to ask Vesker. “Kawit wants Magically Assisted Towers, or MATs, because she likes the pun, and Cloestra rather slyly suggested _hoick’ems_ , which, though in Common, I suspect also has some, ah, liability.”

Several immortals laughed, and so did the Countess.

“Kit heard me telling His Imperial Majesty about the way Cloestra hoicked one of the _ronin_ off his feet, up at Kiyomizu-dera. I was using Common because Thayet was there. Anyway, Kit told Amourta, who told, well, everyone, as far as I can make out, and those so killed are now _hoick’ems_ in, mmm, Stone Tree Nation cant covers it, for now, though it may spread. Have you asked Scamp’s opinion? If she hadn’t learned the spell in sheer exuberance at not having to wait another seven or eight centuries, Quenuresh wouldn’t have seen it worked as she did.”

Master Numair exchanged glances with Mistress Daine and Lady Skysong, and shook his head. “ _Hoick’ems_ it’ll be then, Kel. Are you sure? If a mortal does understand, it’s not the best association.”

“Oh, I don’t know, Numair. Most Yamanis would appreciate it, I think. But let’s say MATs on paper, and _hoick’ems_ in Common.”

“That works. So there you go, Vanget — MATs or _hoick’ems_ , as you prefer.”

“ _Hoick’ems_.” Vanget rolled it on his tongue. “Fair enough. When will we be able to buy ’em?”

“Mabon, maybe. I made the first then, a year back, and we need to be sure we can guarantee a year’s usage at least.”

“Do you or Ferghal have a particular need, Vanget?”

“Not really, Kel, but Fer’s got his eye on some extra pasture for the cross-border stud, and there are some fair-sized boulders he’d like to shift. Hoick’ems would save a lot of sweat and probably worse.”

“I’m all for the stud, so I dare say we could manage that. Numair?”

“Samradh at least, Kel. Give me a chance to be sure.”

“Samradh’s good, Kel. We won’t get Jorvik’s stallions and mares until then, and it’s extra grazing, not necessity.”

“Fair enough, then. You object to something, Master Sternross?”

The older mage had a pinched expression. “If I followed all that, then yes I do, my lady. This _hoicking_ of a _ronin_ , a warrior, is a term for killing them. I find such humorous usage … unclean.”

“ _Mercenary_ would be a better translation than _warrior_ , and the one in question was treasonably assailing Kit, Tobe, Dom, and Their Majesties when he was hoicked, so I can’t say I’m repining. You could add that Cloestra was, beyond duty, defending her Guildmaster and Senior Journeybeing against armed attack in strength. Why should proper action not be commemorated, however wryly?”

“Such levity dishonours the dead!”

Something flickered in the Countess’s eyes but her voice remained pleasant. “Don’t exaggerate, please, Master Sternross. It dishonours exactly one dead _ronin_ , who was buried without prayers and will _not_ have liked what the Black God’s judges had to say to him. But let’s go back to Vanget’s excellent question. You said _horribly dangerous_ , two negatives ; he said _wonderfully dangerous_ , a more balanced view. Of course magical experiments have dangers. So does everything. They also produce new ideas and tools that benefit all. And the gods have raised no objections. Why do you?”

As she spoke Master Numair and Mistress Daine had sat back with an air of anticipation, and Taren watched with mixed feelings as Master Sternross glared. He wasn’t without sympathy for what he thought the older mage’s instinctive balking at massed innovation, but the man had picked his ground foolishly, been squarely beaten in argument, and put precisely on the spot. And he was, however senior in the City of the Gods, well out of his depth, but wasn’t going to admit it.

“Because the risks being taken here are excessive and needless.”

Taren wondered if the absence of any respectful vocatives would begin to grate, and the Countess’s gaze hardened.

“Meaning, I imagine, that our protocols are not those of the City of the Gods. Numair?”

“In one, Kel. Master Sternross thinks the Guild’s research should be transferred there, so it can be, as he says, properly supervised, meaning slowed down or stopped.”

“What a surprise. Numair and Kawit aren’t proper supervisors, Master Sternross?”

Master Numair suppressed a smile, and Master Sternross glared even more.

“Dragon Kawit is doubtless very learned but has no formal training at all, and Numair is lost in thought more often than not. _Anything_ could go wrong, and badly. And all sorts of beings are learning magics that could be put to terrible purpose, without any concern for controlling what they might do.”

“You think a dragon who has lived for more than eighty centuries needs formal training?” Amusement flickered on the Countess’s face, and died away. “You could ask Diamondflame if you may address the Dragonmeet on the subject, but I don’t recommend it. And as to controlling what those who study here go on to do, I’ll listen as and when you can swear that the City of the Gods will never admit and train another Blayce the Gallan. What concern did you have for controlling what  _he_ did after you had taught and expelled him?”

Her voice had flattened, and the Count laid a hand on her arm. She looked at him, and after a second nodded, breathing deeply. When she spoke again her voice was conversational, but steel ran within it.

“You know, Master Sternross, you would be wise not to irritate me further tonight. You presume to slight two mages both far more powerful than you, and argue on specious grounds for a policy that would, all else aside, require approval by the Dragonmeet, which you have not consulted. And at root you do so, whatever your thinking, because the City of the Gods is unhappy the High Ones have shown favour elsewhere, to someone wholly unconnected with it. You also see New Hope not as a new resource but as a rival for old privilege, and have the gall to think annexing Numair’s seminar would solve your problem. And you’re interrupting dinner with business for which you should have sought a formal meeting. Stop it. I don’t particularly mind the personal disrespect, though there are limits, and while Numair tolerates you at the seminar so will I, but one more attempt to interfere with Guild business and rights will see you headed home under escort to explain to Dean Charter the further damage you’ve done the City of the Gods.”

Taren didn’t like the pasty colour of Master Sternross’s face, but the closing threat brought a flush to his cheeks and he mumbled an apology before falling silent. That the mage could be more concerned about the ire of a distant superior than Lady Keladry’s present irritation suggested serious insensibility, but as other conversation picked up more swiftly than he’d expected — Lord Tobeis and others making sure it did — the Countess gave him a rueful look, speaking softly.

“I’m sorry about that, Lord Taren, but he’s been annoying me for several weeks.”

“All fault is his, Lady Keladry. Have you had other problems with the City of the Gods?”

“Not really, but they are in difficulties. The shortage of mages has seen quite a few enticed away, and I poached some teachers myself.”

“Who were falling over themselves to come, love.” Count Domitan also spoke softly. “Not surprisingly. Do you know the City at all, Lord Taren?”

“I’ve never been, my lord, but I suppose it’s the same problem as with the Corus guilds.”

“More or less.” The Countess smiled. “Hidebound self-interest, certainly, though I think I’ve upset the divines more than the mages. Holloran said you had problems in that quarter yourself?”

Taren didn’t want to broach the subject of his father, but worked around it, citing difficulties he’d had in getting priestly answers of any use, and if the discussion was slightly guarded on both sides it got them through to some delicious dessert. Master Sternross withdrew as soon as he’d finished, offering only curt thanks, and was followed more courteously by others, Mistress Heliana and Miss Loesia claiming work to be done, General Vanget, Brendon, and Mrs Spinner tiredness, and Mistress Fanche and Master Saefas their ride home. Lord Tobeis left with a yawning Irnai, and the Wildmage went to see to her children, while Master Numair paused by Lady Keladry’s chair, voice amused

“Do you even know Dean Charter, Kel?”

“Actually I do, Numair. We spoke by fire a few days back, to my considerable surprise.”

“Oh? Trouble?”

“Only for me. His senior divines want a first-hand account of Yaman, gods help me. I told him to send Avinar, so at least I’ll get some benefit.”

“Indeed. And thank you for quashing Sternross. I was beginning to wonder what kind of a tree he’d make.”

“None we want, I’m sure. And if he’s too much to bear, just send him packing. There are enough people who want to be here that we can do without anyone who doesn’t.”

“He’s not a bad mage, just rigid in his views and frightened of change. But I’ll bear it in mind. Goodnight.”

Taren would have been happy to retire himself, but with the departures Var shifted seat to speak to Masters Petrin and Kuriaju, other immortals listening, and they all followed. Var repeated some of the things she’d said to Elimiaju, but the sorry state of the trade-road was in there, and questions new to Taren about whether the stone-melting technique could be used to reinforce a weak section in an adit. She was thinking of one of the mines he’d ordered closed, abandoning a vein of ore that was far from worked out because sloppy excavation years before had made for a real danger, and his pride in her grew. The masterminers were also clearly impressed, but the answer remained maybe, doing anything to weak rock being tricky and tunnelling around usually a better answer. Sam was listening to Lady Skysong, intent as she explained something, and Taren made himself talk to Quenuresh and Aldoven, who were clearing a generous cheeseboard. Stone Mountain could use old webbing as much as anywhere else, and his gift of cheese had proved welcome ; she would bring some in at Beltane, three mornings hence, when many immortals would come to the Citadel.

“We are not expecting any gods this year, although with the Protector anything is possible.” Quenuresh cocked her head. “But the younglings like Feast Days, and here there is always news to catch up with. Have you any from Corus?”

Taren avoided the King’s speech and found the spidrens interested in the changes to the Lower City, which Quenuresh seemed to know ; they also asked after his impressions of Macarron, but conversation shifted when a darking dropped from Quenuresh’s neck to the cheeseboard to scavenge crumbs. It was introduced as Iron, and with both Sam and Var staring, further darkings, Ebony, Button, and Shale, squeaked hellos from the Countess’s and Count’s collars, and Var’istaan’s shoulder. They were fascinating, and Taren wondered what it might mean to bear such a companion, but one more wonder was also enough to leave him abruptly weary, and when he saw Var apologetically stifle a yawn decided enough was enough. They withdrew, offering thanks, and after a glance at the Countess Amir’aan showed them a shorter route through the base of the house, clearly a private apartment, leaving them at the corridor to their rooms. Fighting tiredness, Taren stepped into Var’s room for a moment, drawing Sam with him, and gave each a hug.

“Well, we’re here, safe and well and pretty warmly welcome, given everything. And there are clearly more agendas than our own, so we’ll have to be careful. But I want the conversation we need to have with _her_ about Joren and Father over with sooner than later, so if there’s an opportunity tomorrow I shall take it. Be prepared, please.”

Var reached a hand to his cheek, and he leaned into the caress.

“I’m good with it, Tar. Are you?”

“I think so, Var. As much as I can be. I just wish I hadn’t wanted _him_ dead quite so badly. And … I don’t know, but did you sense the Count’s wariness? And Lady Skysong’s and Lord Tobeis’s? _He_ matters to _her_ , somehow. What we learn, if we do, may not be anything we’ve expected.”

Sam shrugged. “I expect you’re right, Tar, but I don’t know what I expect. What could  _he_ have done to break Father like that?”

“I think we’re going to find out. _She_ won’t refuse a direct question, and I will ask it.” He hesitated, but the question burned. “What did you think of Irnai’s remark about the image we all saw?”

“She spoke true.” Var studied him, brow creasing then clearing. “Did you think you saw Father only as _you_ wish he had been?”

Taren nodded, throat tight, and Var smiled gloriously at him.

“Not so, Tar, I’d swear. Those paintings are godwork, and won’t lie.”

Taren wanted to believe it, and in his comfortable bed, conscious of glimmering light from the runes outlining shutters and listening to the faint calls of sentries as someone walked a night-round, he soon found a dreamless sleep.

 

* * * * *

 

He was woken at dawn by Eskry, who sais training had just begun. His body was yet weary from the road, but his mind was clear, and curiosity had him up and dressed in minutes. Sam and Var were already in the common-room, with Vanget and Brendon, and once Eskry had brought mugs of tea and rolls warm from the oven, eagerly devoured, they went out. Icelight runes were supplementing early light, and he could hear the clash of steel, but Vanget came to an abrupt halt in front of him.

“Gods!”

Brendon was staring too, and Taren stepped to one side so he could see himself. The training grounds and ranges south of the central green were filled with warriors of all kinds — mortals in army maroon and the Countess’s livery, some drilling civilians, and Vesker with his men, but also the Scanrans and fighting ogres of her guard, and in a group of their own half-a-dozen armoured spidrens with long blades strapped to their four front legs sparring with what Taren assumed must be imperial Yamani samurai, each using two blades. And though many pairs of all kinds were working hard, others were clearly experimenting with odd combinations of weapons : swords and glaives against axes, and all three against the sledgehammers ogres wielded. The Lioness’s words about cross-training echoed in his mind, but Var pulled at his sleeve, pointing towards the cliffs, where icelights outlined seven shrines cut into the rock. Before them, Lady Keladry danced with her glaive, achingly slow and precise movements filled with a grace so fluent it shone.

Below her, on the main level, children were training, Lord Tobeis among them and Count Domitan working with the youngest, boys and girls of no more than five or six but intent on their practice with cut-down spears. The sight was chastening, and Taren prodded Sam and a reluctant Var to follow him to join Vesker. After limbering up he worked with Vesker, while another guard swapped his sword for Var’s preferred staff, and for a while he was aware of little but his blade and Vesker’s. With his body’s weariness half-a-mark was enough, and he leaned on his sword, seeing Sam talking to one of the Scanrans, while an army soldier offered Var some advice and demonstrated a sliding move.

“Is all well with you and the men, Vesker?”

“Very much so, my lord. Good barracks, good food, and good company. We was asked about why we’re ’ere, and I stuck to Guild business, like you said.” Vesker blew out a long breath. “It’s all one eye-opener after another, in’t it, my lord? I thought the ogres and Scanrans was outside of enough, but those spidrens …” He shuddered a little. “And they’re _fast_. So are ogres and Scanrans. I ’ave to tell you, my lord, I reckon myself a fair fighter but I wouldn’t last longer than a breath or two against any of these immortals, nor the Scanrans. All the soldiers are the real thing, too — as good as I’ve ever seen.”

“I believe the dragons agree.”

Taren pointed to the cliff-top, where a row of angular heads watched proceedings with interest, eyes gleaming.

“Huh. They vary a lot in size, don’t they?”

“Age. Lady Skysong’s only fifteen, but the biggest fledged ones are about seventeen or eighteen … hundred, I gather.” Taren’s voice was dry and Vesker gave him a sidelong look. “I know. Have any of them spoken to you yet?”

“No, my lord. What’s it like? I saw you with the white one yesterday.”

“Lady Icefall, or Scamp, apparently. And I spoke with Lady Skysong at dinner. It’s odd, but not unpleasant — just a voice in your head, clear as a bell, that didn’t get in through your ears. Oh, and it shouldn’t be our concern, but the mage from the City of the Gods, Master Sternross, is in Lady Keladry’s bad books, so steer clear of him, please.”

“’Appily, my lord. Crossing ’er seems like it would be a very bad idea anywhere, and ’ere it’s madness.”

“Foolishness, certainly. She gives people a lot of freedom, and doesn’t seem to care much about form, but if you cross a line … well, Master Sternross must be three times her age, and a mage besides, but she put him in his place hard.”

“Fits with what I’ve been ’earing, my lord. Did ’er voice go flat?”

“A bit, yes. Why?”

“Captain Uinse said we should ’ope we never ’eard that, but if we did the only answer was _At once, my lady_ , and no messing.”

Taren considered, remembering. “Interesting. She kept her temper in check last night, but it was there. And I’d hope that would be your response to _any_ order she gives while we’re here.”

“Right you are, my lord. Who’s that she’s introducing to the spidrens and Yamanis?”

“General Vanget haMinch, her personal guest, here on business for his brother.”

They watched a spidren-and-samurai pair demonstrate something, blades catching light from the runes, before the Countess borrowed the samurai’s longer sword, shifting her glaive to her left hand as if it too were a sword, and ran in slow motion through an attack that used a deflection rather than a block. Sam was still working with the Scanran, but Var was done and came to stand by him, speaking quietly.

“Did you see, Tar? When she finished her pattern-dance she knelt at each shrine before coming down. We should pray too.”

Taren agreed, asking Vesker to meet him after breakfast, and Sam joined them after thanking the Scanran carefully in his own tongue, and receiving a cheerful invitation to continue sparring tomorrow. A curving path leading to the shrines took them behind spidrens and samurai, still in vigorous conversation with the Countess and Vanget, to a wide set of steps. At the top Taren paused to take in the layout : the shrines were in a shallow bay in the rockface, separated from the path that ran along it by a sough carrying water from the spring, and the central, double-width niche was not, as he had expected, Lord Mithros’s, but Lord Weiryn’s and the Green Lady’s. Mithros and the Great Goddess flanked them, and were flanked in turn, on the left by the Black God and what must be Lord Sakuyo, and on the right by Lady Shakith and the Dream King. It was an odd mix, but all the carved statues were strikingly good, and he was keenly aware that they had seen the gods they represented. As he knelt he found other thoughts joining his usual prayers for his siblings’ safety and successful care of Stone Mountain : thanks to Lord Weiryn and the Green Lady for being welcome at their great shrine, and their daughter’s kindness ; and to Lord Sakuyo for his words in the Countess’s book. Kneeling to the Black God he found himself thinking of _not_ seeing Joren in the picture, understanding that _he_ would always have been among the traitors, never among those who had sallied, with a devout hope that after today he could forgive his half-brother, and better still begin to forget him. Lord Mithros seemed as distant as ever, but asking the Great Goddess for Var’s happiness he felt she approved, and offered thanks. Going on to Lady Shakith, the future seemed brighter, and the feeling deepened with thanks to Lord Gainel for the care of veteran children the Countess had reported.

While he was praying he heard the first bell, and was aware of movement, but when he rose was surprised to see the main level already more than half-cleared. A line had formed outside the messhall, a knot of men stood round the smithy, spidrens, ogres, and Scanrans were gathered on the green, deep in conversation, and the Count and Countess were waiting just beyond the sough, with General Vanget, Lord Tobeis, and Irnai. Sam and Var were finished, too, and after stepping back over the sough he offered a short bow.

“Good morning, my lady, my lords, Miss Irnai. I’m sorry if I’ve kept you waiting.”

“Barely, Lord Taren, and gods can’t be rushed. You slept well?” They all had, and she nodded. “Good. Let’s get breakfast, then.”

She led them across the deserted ranges to the side of the green, continuing a conversation with Vanget about a college of weapons that was apparently to be created at the Palace, and to Taren’s considerable surprise simply added herself to the line at the messhall doors. It was moving quickly, so he said nothing, and she gave him a thoughtful look.

“I keep seats reserved at the high table, but unless there’s need I have no stomach for marching past everyone. Master Sternross was entirely shocked.”

“A good reason for not being so, my lady, though I’m afraid most at Stone Mountain would be also.”

She smiled warmly, and Vanget grinned.

“I bet. The King complains that Kel has no protocol at all, but he’s wrong, you know. She just doesn’t care about petty formalities, nor for swagger.”

“They have their places, Vanget, though swagger’s is only on stage. And blame Raoul — with Third Company he mucked in as often as not.”

Taren had heard stories and knew that was true, but as he listened to Lord Tobeis, saying that after Yaman a proper lack of protocol was a great relief, and noticed several sparrows coming to greet Lady Keladry, other thoughts unfolded in his mind. The Countess didn’t need to insist on shows of deference because she was secure in her authority, and everyone knew it ; and with a flash of insight he saw that there was a connection between her insistence on informality and the great status she could rightly claim. It was not only fortunate, but vivid policy, that a noble, fearsome warrior, and high-ranking officer who was also gods-blessed, did not swagger ; that, having every right to do so, she went out of her way to avoid such behaviour. Another thought hit him like a thunderbolt, and he must have made a sound for she looked at him questioningly. He felt himself flush, knowing honesty was best.

“I’m sorry, my lady, but I’ve just realised you have those paintings where they are to remind yourself … well, not to swagger, I suppose. They’re your legend, not you, somehow.”

This smile was wider than any he’d seen, and her gaze intent for a moment before she murmured something in Yamani.

“I’m sorry. It’s a _haiku_ that came up last time I discussed the paintings, in Yaman.” The Count gave his wife a look, at which she waved a hand, and Taren wondered if _came up_ meant she had written it. “It would take too long to explain, but you’re exactly right, Lord Taren. Not many people see it so clearly.”

“I was distracted last night — by the ghost in the greyness?”

She nodded. “Irnai told me. We can talk about it later.”

He nodded in turn. “Yes. Thank you. But the paintings were bothering me because, forgive me, they could be, not vainglory, because you did do all those things, but the purest pride. They almost ought to be, as a god’s commemoration of such deeds. But they’re nothing like it. I’ve seen enough of it to know.” Under his father Stone Mountain had reeked of pride, and in any fantasy of having been wisely on the right side of events of course the great Lord Burchard would be close to the van of the sally, not anywhere humbler. “They’re another of Lord Sakuyo’s jokes, aren’t they?”

“Oh yes. Grace and hot needles, always, with His Nibs.” His eyes widened at the jesting reference, but she shrugged. “He doesn’t mind, and it amuses other gods as well as soothing me. Having the paintings there still annoys me as often as not, but you can’t say he doesn’t hit many marks at once. They were a present I couldn’t refuse, a source of prestige the fief needed, a cue for a joke that mattered, and a set-up for things in Yaman, as well as objects of pilgrimage, and probably have further purposes I haven’t worked out yet, but their ridiculous size is all about the gap between perceptions and truth.” Winding forwards they had reached the messhall doors, and she gave an oddly urchin grin. “Now add that the messhall is at least as god-touched as I am.”

Vanget snorted, and Count Domitan rolled his eyes at Lord Tobeis, but as they passed the doors Taren understood she had spoken truly, however wry her self-deprecation. The riot of colourful and carved stone would have been amazing in itself, but it also _glowed_ , light falling in pools of colour across the diners, and with it a mild warmth. Some carving seemed only decorative — flowers, animal heads, and geometric motifs — but there were also panels carved into the walls and the faces of supporting pillars ; the originals of those in Corus.

“The carving is down to the refugees, but the godlight was a gift from Lord Weiryn. I imagine you saw the King’s copies of the panels?”

“We did. They are very fine.” And, Taren realised, confronted her with more images of her own heroism. “Was this also Lord Sakuyo’s doing?”

“Not that I know, though I wouldn’t put it past him. The second set might be, though it and all the copies are really down to the King, who insisted on them, dratted man.”

Vanget grinned, but wagged a thick finger. “He had his reasons, Kel, and not bad ones. Your own people were keen enough.”

“I know, but they don’t have to look at themselves all the time.”

Taren thought her crossness only half-serious and risked a further question. “Was it the King’s idea to put them in Genlith’s former house?”

“No, that was Thayet, bless her. He wanted to put them in the Temple District somewhere, and I told him that if he did, and I couldn’t persuade Lord Mithros to use them for target practice next time I annoyed him, I’d destroy them myself.”

Vanget grinned again, giving a wide-eyed Var a wink. “She did, too, much to Archdivine Holloran’s scandalised relief.”

They reached the servers, who greeted Lady Keladry and General Vanget cheerfully, and were introduced. Enjoying a generous helping of bacon as succulent as the boar, with fresh bread and preserves he recognised from one of the Protector’s Maid’s shops, Taren listened as Sam asked about cross-training, drawing in Vanget, and pondered the new understandings accumulating in his mind. What Lady Keladry might have been like when _he_ knew her was moot, but by the time his father confronted her in Council she had been to Rathhausak, had died and been returned, and must already have had something of her wry familiarity with gods. The great blessings they had bestowed were oddly easier to accept than casual references to what amused them, or didn’t, and what she might or might not put past one. It was no more impious than the display of the paintings was prideful, but there was irreverence all the same, and it was not unlike her exasperation with the King. Godlight coloured the air, distractingly.

“A copper for them, Tar?”

“Just trying to take it all in, Var.” He gave her a rueful smile. “I thought praying had helped, a little, but _this_ …”

He gestured, and she nodded.

“It’s amazing, isn’t it? And so beautiful.” She frowned. “The panels are much stronger than the copies, but happier too, somehow.”

“The living carved them with joy in life and New Hope as well as sorrow for Haven and the dead, Lady Varia.” Irnai paused to spread honey on a roll. “Lord Weiryn was happy with his shrine, and the Green Lady with hers, as both were to see their daughter. The gods do not stint when they give at all.” She ate delicately. “St’aara said we will learn about the Bazhir today, and how a desert can be beautiful. I have never seen one.”

No more had Taren or Varia, but the horse-trader they’d met had spoken of the sands with longing, and the easier topic was welcome. The messhall was beginning to empty when the Countess caught his eye.

“I promised you a tour and a look at Geraint’s greenhouse, but Dom and I have paperwork we really must do, and there’s that conversation we should have, so I wondered if you’d mind Vanget showing you round. He wants to see the greenhouse, and if I put my head down and appease Mandrinal this morning, we could speak properly after lunch.”

“Of course. I should write to my mother and aunt also, to let them know we’ve arrived safely.”

“The clerks have paper — in the old HQ, Vanget. And there’s a box there for outgoing mail.”

As soon as they were outside Lord Tobeis and Irnai went off to the schoolhouse, and the Countess and Count headed for her house, trailed by sparrows. Vesker was waiting, and Taren dismissed him for the day, suggesting he and the men explore and asking him to write those letters to his sister and Balter’s wife before turning to Vanget.

“We should start with the Eyrie.” Vanget’s eyes glinted. “Then it’s all downhill after.”

He led them to the Gatehouse, where they said farewell to Brendon, departing for Mastiff, climbed to its third stage, and went along a stretch of alure to a gallery cut into the fin. A sentry with a cocked crossbow saluted, and after returning it Vanget paused to let them take in the new angle of view. When they set off again, through a rising tunnel in the dark rock, Sam expressed surprise at the cocked weapon and asked if some trouble were expected.

“No, no. Kel’s always been one for belt, braces, and better safe than sorry, and if the Honesty Gate does pick up someone hostile that sentry has a clean and swift shot. Uinse swaps men every hour so they don’t get stale.”

Taren filed that away to discuss with Vesker, and thought he might write to Captain Horgan as well, but as the tunnel became an open groove the second set of panels began, on the inner wall. The petrified wood was again shaded with colours, subtler than those of the copies, but lit only by daylight seemed starker until the effect of rising step by step came into play. There was a panel by every third one, and physical ascent became the rising triumph of the tale, from New Hope’s improbable construction through all that had been endured to victory ; the effect was intended, for the last panel, showing Lady Keladry looking down from a high place at New Hope, was at that high place, where the groove switched back. Legs aching from the climb added to the sense of achievement, as Sam and Var agreed while they paused for breath, and Vanget laughed.

“Works well, doesn’t it? The King was right about that, even if they do irritate Kel.”

“Did he know they would do so, my lord?”

“He did, Lady Varia. He was still reeling from seeing her in action, and needed to assert himself as he could. Art seemed a safe bet, and it was only after those paintings turned up that Kel started wondering if putting up with these panels had been what she called training.” He shrugged. “I’ve never quite understood for what, but you do, don’t you, Lord Taren? Can you explain that thought about keeping humble?”

“Um … it’s not easy to put in words, my lord.” He would have to speak of his father later, and didn’t want to do so now. “The pictures show what I’ve been thinking about for months. What I thought I was riding towards. But they don’t really show the woman I met yesterday, only how others see her.”

“Mmm. They’re a bit … re-arranged, I grant, as tales usually are, but Kel did everything they show.” They began to climb again, New Hope visible below them, and Taren saw dragons gathered on the green. “Or did you mean their size?”

“That’s some of it, certainly, as with statues.” And _his_ ornate effigy. “Say perhaps that they show what Lord Sakuyo made of her in those moments, not what she is in herself.”

“Huh. Maybe.” Vanget scowled. “I saw those moments, though, and I’ll not be forgetting them. I’ve never been one for theology, so I expect you’re right, but wait a moment and tell me what you think.”

The groove ended, delving into the rock, and Vanget gestured. “Go on up, Lady Varia, and give a shout to let the sentries know we’re coming.”

Taren and Sam followed, Vanget shepherding them, and a sharp spiral brought them into the well-named Eyrie. He acknowledged the guards’ greetings, and was interested Vanget knew their names, but the vista on all sides was breathtaking, and frames of petrified spidren-mesh in the south-western sides the first he’d seen. One of the sentries demonstrated their efficacy by lifting one down for a moment, letting a keen wind swirl in.

“Only fresh today, my lord, but strong enough to make looking up valley hard on the eyes. And we’re right glad of them in winter.”

Var was fascinated, and Taren added them to his list. He was gazing over the length of the fin when Vanget came to stand beside him.

“Kel does say Lord Sakuyo was with her out there, but as she tells it he was mostly enjoying the joke of her having to do it despite being afraid of heights. Then again, she puts it all down to that bow Lord Weiryn gave her, with the sunbird arrows. What _I_ saw was a superb commander taking a calculated risk in cold blood, and pulling it off. Don’t doubt the bow helped, and without that arrow there’d have been no point, but _she_ made the shot possible, and took it. Now, that sounds like I’m agreeing with what you were saying about the paintings showing more than the truth, but I don’t think I do. What she’s got inside her is just as big as they are, and in the moment it showed, clear as sunlight. And right through the siege, really. Time and again, anyway. She’s as mortal as you and me, and with better cause to know it, but I say those pictures are as accurate as a god could make them, all the same.”

“I hear you, my lord. And yes, they are. But there’s a gap, too, and she doesn’t like people missing it.”

“As I did, you mean, Tar? In the Gatehouse yesterday?”

That tale, with Taren’s observations of people saying _she_ had struck down Torhelm, or taken on King Maggur single-handed, took them back to the Gatehouse, Vanget agreeing that in person and in her reports she was punctilious in assigning praise to others, as blame when that was due. He said nothing he shouldn’t, but did convey a wry sense of what he called eyebrow-lifters, reports blandly stating some new impossibility, that led to animated discussion with Var about the Yamani engineers and the Vassa, interspersed with comments about the siege. The crenel from which the petrified giant had fallen was marked by an inscription, **Here Died an Immortal Victim of Uusoae, Petrified by Var’istaan** , that drew a story of soldiers recovering the petrified foot and wanting to display it until Kel put her own foot down ; and on the North Tower roof, where _she_ stood in the first painting, a self-deprecating story about Vanget’s astonished understanding of the _blódbeallár_ in the jest, and amazement as Maggur’s army had been more than halved in a few hours.

They had walked the eastern alure and were looking at the gathered immortals on the green — all the dragons, several young basilisks and ogres, and some small stormwings on perches, being addressed by Master Numair and another man — when a tawny-orange form swooped down, skimming over Master Numair’s head so closely the mage ducked and nearly fell, while stormwings bated and the orderly gathering was disrupted. By the time he had regained his balance, black fire sparkling at his fingertips, Junior — it had to be — was beyond the Gatehouse, still rising, and the mage could only glare after him while immortals resettled themselves. Vanget shook his head.

“However those paintings may help Kel keep humble, they did Junior no good at all. He was bad enough before deciding they were all of him, with everything else just context.”

All three siblings stared at Vanget, who shrugged.

“He doesn’t speak as such, but at the wedding he stared at them for hours, and Kel says he still flies in when the terrace doors are open and preens at any pilgrims who haven’t fainted with shock.”

The thought was amusing, but Taren understood Duke Turomot’s disapproval of impudent menace, and said so. Vanget nodded.

“Junior got bored while his parents were keeping negotiations honest, and even Kawit was getting annoyed with him, never mind Turomot.”

“Can anyone control him?”

“Kel, a bit, and adult dragons, I gather. His parents seem to have given up. Kel has a nice line about them blaming her for letting him get bad habits when she had care of him as a squire, and never daring to point out that they let him get stolen in the first place.”

“Is there anything she truly doesn’t dare to do, my lord?”

Vanget grinned. “Not so’s you’d notice, Lady Varia, but Their Featherheads _are_ very haughty. The Wildmage says all griffins are.”

Conversation lapsed as they entered the cave system, another whole dimension of New Hope unfolding before them. Having been to the Eyrie they didn’t bother with the Look-Out Post, though Vanget showed them the passage that led to it, a chamber where looms clacked busily, and the cell, presently empty, where Runnerspring had been held. The General’s demeanour did not invite questions, but in the extraordinary passage cut through the fin he waxed enthusiastic about the bridge, and persuaded the guard stationed there to demonstrate its mechanism for a delighted Var. She was equally pleased with the linked portcullis and drawbridge at the Corral Gate, and they were all struck by the neatness of the stone-cutting and sheer depth of defences. As they followed the path at the base of the cliffs, past many doorways and the shuttered windows of _The Pilgrims’ Progress_ and _The Bivouac_ , Vanget agreed.

“Despite that gods-blessed rescue mission, it was sight of this place that really made me take Kel seriously. It wasn’t even finished but it was already an amazement. Give the refugees some proper defences, I said, thinking of a second Haven with a double palisade, and a few weeks later she had a fifty-foot glacis with a spiked moat and a roadway that has to be the most successful killing-field in Tortallan history.” He shook his head in wonder. “Saw Wyldon at Giantkiller the day before I came here, and he was raving about the finest strongpoint since Northwatch, but with Eyrie and Corral added it puts Northwatch to shame. New Hope was shifting military reality for miles along the border even before she diverted the Great North Road past her new doorstep and got Drachifethe built. Amazing. And now it’s round greenhouses!”

The crowd around the construction was smaller than the day before, but there were still several hundred people watching ogres being lifted by mages and a wingless dragon Vanget identified as Kawit, to attach the final sections of the framework, while others were slotting the great glass hexagons Taren had seen in the cart into interlocking circles. As a hemisphere the building had to be half as high as it was wide, and measuring with his eyes Taren reckoned the radius was not less than one-hundred-and-twenty-five feet, meaning — he checked his calculations, and swallowed — that more than an acre was being enclosed. Ground hard by the curved walls would have limited use, but there would be plenty of space for fruit orchards. Var was furiously scribbling in a notebook, but after a while put it away with a scowl.

“I have no idea how to calculate it, but I can _see_ it.”

“See what, Var?”

“ _Everything_ is weight-bearing, Sam. The load is completely distributed. That’s why it doesn’t fall down, and will resist wind pressure and snow-weight.” She tapped her foot. “If the snow doesn’t just slide off anyway. It’s brilliant.”

“Don’t disagree, Lady Varia. Bit big for most places, though. Could it be scaled down?”

“I can’t see why not, my lord. I think you could do it on _any_ scale.”

They had to wait until the builders took a break to be introduced to Kawit and speak to Master Geraint, who cheerfully confirmed Var’s insight and silenced them all by saying that while he and some ogres had had the idea, they’d been working by intuition until Lord Sakuyo provided a mathematics to map curved surfaces, allowing proper calculations.

“I’m writing it up for the Guild, my lady, but we’re busy and there’s a _lot_ of it, I warn you, and not easy. Our existing geometry comes from pre-Thanic and Carthaki sources, and it’s all flat. Curved surfaces are _very_ different.”

Var’s questions were over Taren’s head but impressed Master Geraint, who was willing to let her see what he’d written. They arranged to meet, and the engineer returned to work, leaving Var pensive.

“This really matters, Tar. It’s as new as using what basilisks can do, and it will have other applications.”

That was yet more food for thought, but though Var would have stayed watching all day Taren wanted to walk and tempted her with the other construction by the fin. As they headed back down the valley they found _The Bivouac_ just opening its doors, and were introduced by Vanget to the innkeep, Sergeant Connac. Going on, Vanget explained the man’s injury during the siege and forced retirement, adding that Kel had found places for all the injured who wanted to stay, and ways for them to do as much as they could.

“Wrote glowing commendations for those who wanted to go home, too, and had me and the King countersign ’em. Can’t remember the man’s name, but one at least was from Stone Mountain. Don’t suppose you know what became of him?”

Taren searched his mind ; he had inherited reams of paperwork, but nothing with those signatures.

“If my father received a letter from her, he didn’t pass it on. But it might have gone to my uncle. I will find out. Do you recall the nature of the injury?”

“Lost an arm, I think, riding in the sally. Axe, probably.”

The idea that there had been a man from Stone Mountain in the sally hit Taren hard. He didn’t think his father would have ignored a letter from _her_ , not at that stage, but his uncle would, and if he had, leaving a maimed veteran to suffer, there would by all the gods be consequences. Taren barely saw the facilities for pilgrims, though the tea-house was arresting, triple rooves gleaming in the sun, and the middle-aged Yamani man laying neat matting within surprised them by remarking that the Most Blessed Protector- _sensei_ had only to select _kanji_ and all would be ready for its dedication. Returning through the tunnel Vanget said he’d heard plenty of _Blesseds_ before, Yamanis using that honorific for those who’d heard Lord Sakuyo laugh, which at New Hope was more or less everyone, but _Most Blessed_ was new on him, no doubt a result of whatever it was Kel had got up to in Yaman. Taren left Sam and Var to relate the King’s sworn account, and returned to his room, writing an exact letter to Commander Svein, requiring action ; a thoughtful one to Captain Horgan, inviting reviews of procedure ; and a softer, longer one to his mother and aunt, expressing admiring wonder at all he’d seen at New Hope and confessing trepidation about the forthcoming meeting.

Lunch sittings were underway by the time he put the letters in the proper box, being told by a clerk that a messenger would be heading south next morning, and found Sam, Var, and Vanget watching smiths framing more glass hexagons and still discussing the greenhouse. The complex design was a barrier, but Vanget was clear on the advantage of any extension to the northern growing season, and frank about the difficulties even haMinches faced in feeding everyone if the harvest was poor. Ill-timed rain and frost being major culprits, glass-roofed fields were a greater attraction than one might think, even with the need to water by hand, and the General’s detailed knowledge of the Peace Treaty, and just how much food went north as a result, took them through yet another excellent meal. There was no sign of the Countess, but soon after they had finished eating Lord Tobeis came in.

“General, Ma says the Yamani engineers have sent a first report, and you can find it in the Guild office.” Vanget nodded, and Lord Tobeis gave them a guarded look. “And my lords, my lady, she and Da will see you in the house now.”

They followed him out, and once Vanget peeled off for the doorway in the fin, Taren took a breath.

“I’m sorry, Lord Tobeis, if this conversation is upsetting for the — for your Ma. But for us it’s a ghost we have to try to lay.”

“Whose ghost?”

“Our half-brother, Joren. He was our enemy as much as hers. And our father cast a long shadow.”

The boy shrugged. “You can’t choose your kin, my lord, and it’s not my business. But please remember Ma doesn’t need any more burdens, and don’t let her pick up yours.”

“I can’t change the history of Stone Mountain, but we’ll try not to be Stone Fools.”

A grin was followed by a disconcerting look. “Ma said Elimiaju told you I named them, but not why it mattered. The Yamanis just thought it was funny because it was true.”

“I don’t know if it does matter, Lord Tobeis, but Elimiaju was talking of the way he believes stone speaks, and thought the Stone Fools were more of a statement by basilisks. I don’t really understand myself, but I hope to talk to Bard Olimiariaju about it.”

Lord Tobeis looked thoughtful. “His ballad’s full of stuff about stone speaking. The basilisks say ogres have odd ideas, but I quite like that one. And Kit says the finstone likes being strong, and is happy to be strong for us. But you shouldn’t keep Ma waiting, and I’m due at the Corral stables. Use the middle door.”

He went on towards the cave, dropping out of sight, and they turned onto the path across the lawn. Miss Loesia was waiting, and showed them to a comfortable study where the Count and Countess rose to greet them. It was clearly a private family space, couches and upholstered chairs in a rough circle, with a scatter of colourful cushions and rugs ; in the middle a small table held a beautiful teapot and five cups, with a caddy and boiling-vessel. Thanking Miss Loesia, they sat together on a couch, and the Countess knelt by the table.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I find the tea ceremony soothing, and I thought we could all do with some calm.”

The sense of ritual was peaceful, but as the Countess made the tea, whisked, and poured, Taren realised it was more than following set actions : the authority she radiated was being pulled in, banked down to become a conscious serenity, and it was not only the fragrance of clear green tea that helped settle his stomach. With everyone served she took her own cup, sat gracefully, and raised it to take a first sip.

“Peace be with you.”

He recalled the correct reponse from his reading. “And with you.”

She smiled. “You’re familiar with the ceremony?”

“Only from a book, my lady.”

“Yamanis have lots of rules, and they vary if food is served. Having an unimpeachable excuse to build some proper tea-houses is the best thing about all the pilgrims coming, frankly. But perhaps we should speak of your pilgrimage, my lord. What is it you wished to say, or ask?”

This was it, and all the advice he’d received tumbled in Taren’s mind as Sam and Var took his hands.

“You said yesterday that we owed you no debt, my lady, and I know I am not responsible for the actions of my half-brother, uncle, and father. But becoming Stone Mountain, I inherit their guilt all the same, and they owe you much. So, for what little it can be worth, I begin by offering you the deepest apologies of Stone Mountain for their deeds and words against you, their corruption and corruption of others to their cause.”

“Your apology is honoured and accepted, my lord, noting that you bear no guilt in the matter.” Her eyes were distant. “Joren repented nothing, and paid all he had, but your father did offer me an apology of his own.”

“So he said. I doubt it amounted to much.”

“It didn’t, but his abdication does. With his gods’ oath of ignorance accepted, the King wouldn’t have forced it. Did he tell you why he decided to do it?”

“No. Only that he could no longer tolerate the world, and I should heed you as he had not, because the gods walked with you as they never had with him.”

“Huh. Tolerate the world? How very … Joren.”

Taren blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“Mmm. Bear with me a moment. The King said you wanted to ask me what the elemental said to your father?”

“Yes, but … I don’t know how much sense this makes, because they’re the same thing, but I don’t, we don’t, really care why Joren died, only that he did. But I do want to know what broke my father, and I’m not sure if the King heard, but the elemental said to tell you it didn’t mind our knowing.” The grips on his hands were tight. “Father was always so proud, so harsh and distant. Joren’s death enraged him and ate at him, but it didn’t break him. Then you took him to speak with the elemental, and he returned white and silent, more distant than ever, even when he started lecturing me about how I was a poor substitute but had to keep up traditions, and I could see he was, I don’t know, fractured inside. Cracked, in spirit as much as mind. News of the treason was only the final straw.”

“Huh. I imagine they arrived together, but news of the treason, or of the victory, do you think?”

“Um … aren’t they the same?”

“Yes and no. The treason involved your father’s … well, I don’t know about friends, but close associates. The victory was over Maggur. But there’s something else involved. I was going to say that what killed Joren and what broke your father weren’t the same thing, but perhaps they were after all.” She refilled teacups, and when she sat took the Count’s hand in her free one. “Are you aware that the so-called Duty of Silence about what happens in Ordeals of Knighthood is not the elemental’s rule, only mortal shame?”

“No. _Shame_?”

“Or something like it. One thing the elemental does to test you is make you watch helplessly what you most fear — loved ones being killed, homes raided and destroyed, and so on. As best I understand, it’s meant to be like heating metal, so it can be shaped. What broke your father was learning that Joren had rejoiced at visions of him being killed, because he chafed under your father’s rule.”

“Oh.” Taren slumped back on the couch as understanding filled him. “I saw only minor arguments between them, trivial matters, and Joren never criticised Father to us except to say he shouldn’t have re-married, but that makes sense. Father was a stickler for everything, and Joren always wanted his own way. But he was so obsessively proud of Joren — his looks, and skill with the sword, his riding, and oratory. Knowing he was hated to death in return … yes, _that_ would have broken him.”

“Treason within, capped by treason without.” Var squeezed his hand. “The precious son just another who was unworthy of him.”

The Countess winced. “As you were, Lady Varia?”

“We all were, my lady. Wrong colour, wrong shape, like our mother, not like him. But how is Joren hating Father what killed _him_?”

“It isn’t. What killed Joren was hating me, or what he thought I stood for. Like all the bigots, he linked me to so many things I had nothing to with there was never much clarity involved. But the elemental read that hate, and knew he’d paid others to try to kill me, so it tested him by making him live in a world where I was queen, and the safety of Stone Mountain required him to submit loyally. He chose to die instead. That was what I meant by saying your father being unable to tolerate the world was very Joren.”

“It made him your subject?” Var’s laugh was as clear as it was shocking. “Oh, that’s perfect. He must have been _so_ cross when he realised why he’d died.” She sobered. “I understand why Tar feels he has to apologise to everyone, but I wanted to thank you, my lady, for standing up to Joren. It made him so angry that he couldn’t beat you, and that made him meaner but gave me hope. I thanked the elemental for killing him, but it seems you’re owed too. He was _horrid_ , always.”

The Countess’s eyesbrows were high. “Yes, he was, Lady Varia. Was it very bad for you?”

“Tar and Sam protected me, but we all walked afraid when he was home, and we all prayed for his death. Tar feels guilty for having done so. I don’t.”

“And you, Lord Saman?”

Sam shrugged. “A bit, my lady. Wanting a close kinsman dead isn’t right, I know, but I was as relieved as Var when we learned he’d died. We’d all have been in trouble if he’d inherited. But Tar carried it for me as well as Var, and hated him for us as well as for himself. Joren didn’t bother with me if he could get at them.”

“Did your mother offer no protection?”

“None that worked, my lady.” Taren sighed. “She had hysterics if she saw us badly bruised or bleeding, but it did no good. We learned to hide injury, and stay out of range. And yes, I’m glad he’s dead, so glad, and I hate it that I cannot be otherwise. It feels so wrong.”

“Yes and no.” The Countess shook her head. “I say that a lot these days, but that’s gods for you. I was glad of his death too, when I’d got over the shock. You know your father and uncle came straight from the Chapel and burst into Raoul’s rooms, screaming at me, with your mother trying to calm them?”

“She told us a little, yes.”

“I thought she was Joren’s mother at the time. I didn’t know your father had remarried, nor that Joren’s mother died bearing him, though it might explain some things.”

“I have thought so, yes. Our mother was little more than our father’s bedwarmer and a social protection against other women with ambitions. Father raised Joren himself, with our uncle. I don’t envy _him_ that.”

“So you feel bad for him as well as for yourself, and your siblings?”

“Yes. Commander Svein told us you saw Joren as a victim, and I can see that he was. I know he was. But we were _his_ victims, all the same. And what was wrong in our father was magnified in Joren.”

“Yes, it was. Your father is narrow, rigid, and for my money stupid as well as harsh, but he isn’t wholly dishonourable. When the King’s Council voted to subject Tirrsmont to an enquiry of noble competence your father abstained — he just sat there, and I thought at the time he was distracted because we’d just agreed to try to talk to the elemental about Joren’s death, but I’ve wondered since if that was also his way of _not_ supporting Tirrsmont without offending Runnerspring and Torhelm.”

“It might have been.” Taren shrugged. “He only ever spoke to me of his allies and supporters in general terms, so I can’t say if he’d have thought like that. And the distraction was real enough.”

“Well, either way he _didn’t_ support Tirrsmont, when it came to it, and dissociated himself from Torhelm as well as apologising when he saw me the next day. And I don’t think he knew about Sir Voelden. Irnai’s right about the painting, too — you wouldn’t see him in Lord Sakuyo’s greyness if he weren’t willing to be there, so he must truly repent his mistakes.”

“But not enough to face them. And he’ll call his cowardice pride, just as he did all his other blindness and folly.”

“Ouch. I don’t really know him at all, but that sounds horribly true. He’s still not wholly dishonourable, though, however skewed his thinking. But Joren had no honour at all, and I knew it even before what happened to Lalasa. He was halt in his soul, as Neal says. And what you’re missing, Lord Taren, is that feeling your gratitude for his death to be wrong is a testimony to your own honour. Do you suppose _him_ capable of regret, even in death? I don’t know so, but I’d bet your sister’s right that he was furious when he stood before the Black God’s judges, which will not have helped him. You’ve prayed to the Black God about this, I imagine?”

“Oh yes. Daily. But it doesn’t seem to help.”

“Mmm. Do you ask for help carrying the burden?”

“Yes.”

“Try opening yourself to him instead. Let him take it from you, if he will. And I think he will. I’m not so keen on your idea that Joren’s death was a down payment to me, but I will say that your prayers for his death were not misplaced, and may well have been answered — the gods think in the very long term, and in so far as they needed to shape me without touching me, Joren may have been playing his own part in it all.”

“The elemental said it made its own decisions, but Lord Sakuyo had been deeper in things than it had known, and it might have played a part beyond itself.”

“Interesting. Odds in favour, then. What happened to Joren, and to Vinson, mattered in many ways, as the King knows well. And there’s this, Lord Taren, that you too were protecting the small, however you could.”

Taren’s eyes were wet. “I was trying to, yes, but he should have been with me, not against us.”

“Yes, he should, but he has no power now.”

“He has an effigy. White marble, gilding, and false piety. A great stone lie. Father spent  _months_ obsessing over it. I want to smash it.”

Hey eyes widened. “Goddess! That’s understandable, but probably unwise. Could you paint it?”

“Or brick it up?” The Count spoke for the first time. “Family mausoleum?”

“Yes. Right in the middle.” Taren shrugged. “I’ve thought of bricking up the whole thing, but a lot of people would be unhappy.”

Unexpectedly the Countess grinned. “Time for some Tobe logic, I think. Don’t like it, can’t take it away, so add to it. Put in a shrine to the Great Goddess, so people can pray for her forgiveness of the dead for their treatment of women. I don’t think she’d mind, especially if you make enough offerings to give it some potency. And keep it simple, to rebuke all that marble and gilding.”

“Good one, love.”

The Count was smiling too, and Taren felt the laugh rise until it could not be held in, and all three of them were laughing. Joren would be spinning in his silly tomb, and probably all Stone Mountain’s ancestral dead with him, but no-one could rightly object. And if there were tears with the laughter, there was a new tranquility beneath both, a stillness of acceptance. The Countess silently offered handkerchieves, ignored the Count’s smile, and tactfully busied herself making fresh tea. The cup’s warmth was a gentle pleasure, and Taren let out a long breath.

“Thank you, my lady, for everything, but especially the idea of a shrine. _That_ I can do, and it will be a great help, I think. I knew I was in a muddle, but I couldn’t see what to do, and you see so clearly.”

“Not really. I’ve just got used to giving the gods more work. But you’re very welcome, and I owe you some thanks myself. Lalasa was quite overcome that a noble would apologise to her.”

“Mrs Weaver was owed, so I was only doing what was right, and we were all happy to learn what you’d done with the fine. But please don’t thank me for talking to the elemental, let alone discombobulating it, if I did. We wanted to on our own accounts.”

Her eyes narrowed, and the Count grinned.

“Alanna, love. Has to be.”

Var nodded. “She told us what you would want to thank Tar for when she was warning us not to be too grateful, my lady, because it would be annoying and you were allergic to it.”

The grin became a laugh, and the Countess scowled at her husband.

“I’m not that bad, Dom.”

“Of course not, love — only sometimes just a little like a bear with a sore head. Half the problem, Lady Varia, is that people will insist on thanking Kel for the wrong things, and the other half is that royal, imperial, and divine thanks have a way of creating a great deal of trouble, so she tries to avoid them all.”

“As if I could.” But the Countess sounded resigned rather than irritated. “Anyway, being thankful is necessary, and I am. And if you three want to be, then can we please drop the vocatives unless they’re needed? I prefer simplicity, and Tobe says it still gives him a turn when anyone calls him a lord.”

“Are you sure, m—” She looked at him. “It seems disrespectful.”

“It sounds friendly.”

He took a breath. “Then we are honoured, Keladry.”

“You’re welcome, Taren. And Kel’s fine too. Was there anything else?”

“Only what Elimiaju said about stone and fire talking, but I think we need Bard Olimiariaju for that.”

“Fair enough. Beltane’s a day for sitting and talking. What we should sort out, then, is what you’re doing while you’re here.”

That proved straightforward. Var wanted to see mines and learn maths, and could with Masters Petrin and Kuriaju, who regularly inspected all delving, and Master Geraint while he was resident ; Sam wanted to learn and practice weapons and improve his Scanran, and after some questioning Keladry suggested he work with Uinse and New Hope First before trying things with immortals and Scanrans.

“All the First speak fluent Scanran, Saman, and you could learn a lot from Uinse. I’m working with my own guards quite intensively, because they’re only just learning to fit together and I need to shape them into a force I can use properly.”

Sam was content, and Taren himself was primarily concerned, beyond the various Guild contracts, with learning better leadership and lordship, and with how Keladry ran her fief.

“If I can ever get Stone Mountain humming half as well as New Hope I’ll know I’ve really got something right. I don’t have your innate authority, and our resources are different, but while I’ve made a start, I know I can do better.”

“You want to shadow me, then? Lots of paperwork, I warn you, as well as some inspections. Spellmirrors are all very well, but there’s nothing like dropping by unexpectedly to find out how things are really working, or not. And there will be times I’ll need to exclude you, Taren. I deal with some confidential army and royal business, and there’ll be people who won’t speak as they need to if a stranger is present.”

He had no problem with that, and Keladry discussed the coming weeks a little, indicating travel to the Vassa Road and Dragonstown. Then she fetched and introduced them to her twins, lively infants learning to roll over and delighted with the skill, and a while later he found himself blinking in the afternoon sunlight, and headed to the shrines to be properly thankful, and take Keladry’s advice.

 

* * * * *

 

With the exception of Midwinter, when his father had always been away in Corus, the quarter-day and cross-quarter-day feasts had never been celebrated at Stone Mountain beyond a perfunctory dawn ceremony, so Taren watched New Hope prepare for Beltane with interest. In the few days he’d been shadowing her he’d heard Keladry give orders for a bonfire by the green and extra hunting for the feast, but people were obviously looking forward to it and did most of the work without being asked. Everything was spruced up, brushes and dusters much in evidence, as well as some repainting of shutters and doors, and he realised it served as a useful prompt for maintenance ; but there was also a simpler excitement that encompassed everyone.

Keladry’s principal workroom was a large office above the reception room with the paintings, and on the morning of Beltane Eve Taren was drawn to the window by the sound of the rock spell. Master Numair and a basilisk were standing by the cistern that received the flow from the spring, the mage drawing water into the air and doing something with his glittering black magic before the basilisk roared, with more magic after. Keladry didn’t rise from her desk, and spoke without looking up.

“Numair and Var’istaan?”

“Master Numair and a basilisk, certainly. And lots of water.”

“They’ll be making more icelight-beads. The children love them, and would have him making them all the time if I let them. A batch on each feastday eve keeps them happy, and there doesn’t seem to be anywhere they think isn’t improved by a string or two. Huh. Mandrinal, did you see this letter from Lord Ennor?”

It was mostly concerned with a request for icelights to improve safety on the Frasrlund causeway, but an addendum about a southern portmaster who had tried to impose a Masons’ Guild tariff on a batch of petrified spidren-web mesh, saying all worked stone was so dutiable, that had Keladry exercised. Letters of thanks to Lord Ennor, and of biting complaint with sharp legal citations to the portmaster, were promptly written, copies of the latter going to Duke Turomot and the King. Mandrinal was a senior royal clerk on loan, clearly personally committed to New Hope, who had requested a permanent transfer ; the issue of Guild prerogatives and clashes was one of his special domains, and Taren took advantage to pose the question about Var and the Miners’ Guild, or the Craftsbeings’. Keladry stared, and hooted laughter.

“Well, a noble female apprentice would do the Miners no end of good, but they’ll never allow it.”

“They used to. Var said she’d read their rules and there was nothing about barring women.”

“Really?”

“Lord Taren is correct, Lady Kel. It’s habit, not rule.”

“Well, now. Could they be forced to it?”

“It would not be easy.” Mandrinal frowned. “Then again, refusing an heiress of Stone Mountain would give them an almighty headache. How serious are you willing to get, my lord?”

“If Var and I decide it’s really the best way to go, then as serious as I need to be, Master Mandrinal. I have no objection to expelling them from Stone Mountain, _if_ I don’t lose production. But I didn’t think the Craftsbeings’ Guild would want that responsibility.”

“Not soon, certainly. And not until our basilisk numbers rise, which they might. But everyone needs basilisks.”

“Stone Mountain has labour enough, and basilisk cutting is a luxury. Ogres and mortal miners would be enough, I think.”

“I dare say, but I need them myself, Taren, for a while at least. Tirrsmont is sorted out, and Fanche’s and Saefas’s coalmine up and running — or down and running — but there’s another half-dozen reports of coal seams yet to investigate properly, and some other things.”

“What would you think of a Craftsbeings’ apprenticeship, Keladry?”

“Mmm. No problem in principle, and it would be a lot easier on Varia. Kuriaju’s rather taken with her, anyway. But you’re right there are a lot of political angles here. Wretched things, but it doesn’t do to ignore them. Let me ponder it for a while.”

Taren was happy to do so, and conversation turned to other letters, from lords, merchants, ambassadors, and all manner of people wanting all manner of things. He was still astonished by the sheer range of business Keladry routinely conducted with relentless energy — her army command, fief administration and security, Guild issues, and pilgrims’ welfare, even before you added her status as King’s Councillor and close connections with the Scanran Council of Ten. Having Master Numair in residence might explain how many spellmirrors she had, and they certainly saved on correspondence as well as speeding things along, but using them took its own time, and scores of letters were still dictated or delegated and signed every day. Whenever she could be she was cleanly decisive, and that was one key to generating the efficient hum Taren wanted for Stone Mountain, but many things were inevitably more complex and contingent, or dependent on others with less despatch.

He also finally had the conversation about Protector’s Maids at Stone Mountain, and with it the satisfaction of persuading Keladry to something. She had been flattered by his request, if doubtful of the precedent and politics, as he’d suspected she would be, but his counter-argument that in the particular case of Stone Mountain those were to be welcomed gave her pause. It _would_ be remarked on, furiously, and Taren was very willing it should be, serving as not only a further break with the past but an unequivocal signal of political re-alignment. When he added that he really didn’t need the money, while New Hope did, and would charge only nominal rents, she sat silently for a moment before agreeing with caveats about his personal involvement in vetting applicants and responsibility for the necessary administration until a Guild office could house it. A formal statement of permission was drawn up, annexes specifying financial and other procedures, and he signed it with pleasure, letting Vesker know what had been decided and asking all the men to spread word in any letters they sent.

One stream of Guild business was particularly interesting, for the King’s command that all immortals residing in Tortall be brought under treaty with Guild oversight meant many new branches were required, with a consequent and severe problem of staffing. So far as immortals were concerned ogres were most readily available, and negotiations with Queen Barzha and Quenuresh about recruiting stormwings and spidrens at an advanced stage ; for the mortal component Keladry had turned to family connections and personal friendships. Through her brothers and sisters she had links to many fiefs, including Richcaffery, Teresian, Nond, Hannalof, and haMinch, the last boosted by friendship with Lords Vanget and Ferghal, but had also appealed to Goldenlake, Olau and Trebond, Cavall, Queenscove, Hollyrose, Tasride, Tameran, and more, asking for people with the rank and spine to make suspicious nobles toe the Guild line. And she had been answered, with a dozen volunteers already due to come for Samradh and stay until Mabon, to study the Guild’s model and learn the regulations they would need to enforce. The whole was driven by the King’s command and underlying desire to harness for all Tortall the immortal power he had seen at New Hope, but Keladry was taking advantage to build a network of influence and mutual advantage for her fief. Those who became Guild officers would gain a great deal in status and earnings, and though the whole point of the Guild’s system was to ensure profits went to the deserving, branches would tithe to support its central administration and burgeoning college of magical co-operation.

It was admirable, but left Taren sharply aware of Stone Mountain’s isolation. His father’s alliances had not been cemented by marriages or any system of patronage and employment, and that had to change, but he would never dictate Sam’s or Var’s marriages, his uncle and aunt were childless, and any cousins very distant, so his resources were limited. Or so he thought until Keladry, hearing him lament, became distinctly brisk.

“Poach and adopt, Taren. From Genlith, for starters. You have money, and he was always tight-fisted in his own fief, according to Turomot, who was moaning about having to keep people he’s cleared idle while he tears the place apart and the King frets about what he’s going to do with the fief. There have to be people you could entice. Invent jobs to suit skills, and be generous enough to make them grateful. And don’t think it’s only noble connections that matter. Your ancestors badly limited Stone Mountain by fixating on the Book of Gold, so you should look well beyond the Book of Copper.” She grinned. “When Wyldon and his family came for my wedding, one of his wife’s maids fell for a former Tirrsmonter who bred boarhounds _and_ got on with Wuodan and Frige, so he’s now employed in the kennels at Cavall and sees more of Wyldon than most ever will. We’re friends anyway but it builds connections, and something that Tirrsmonter said to Owen, passed to his father, prompted Dagal of Lisbethan, whom I didn’t know at all but also breeds dogs — mastiffs and wolfhounds — to write asking if I’d support a petition to the Council about cracking down on breeders who let animals suffer. I did, as did Daine, and everyone was so taken aback it passed and Dagal now counts himself in my debt. Serendipity, but make the effort and it’ll turn up.”

Taken aback himself, Taren spent an evening discussing it with Sam, Var, and (after some thought) Vesker, and wound up with a list of jobs he could reasonably invent. His mother and aunt could certainly use assistance with hedgewitch and healer work, Captain Horgan would not be unhappy with extra soldiers, and — Sam’s clever suggestion, after hearing of much dog-breeding — there was no reason Stone Mountain should not breed scent-dogs to help in mine rescue, and every reason it should, besides the inviting connections with Cavall and Lisbethan. A flurry of letter-writing ensued, to augment the considerable volume of mail Keladry despatched to all points every day.

He also received mail for the first time since leaving Corus. Svein reported all well, with questions about this and that, and his mother was beside herself with pleasure at the petrified dinner service and triple portrait by the Protector’s Maid ; she also had news of a dozen hedgewitches who had warily emerged from the fief’s population, and of children and mothers already saved from one or another disease, with warm praise of Svein for often dining with her and Aunt Lily. It relaxed Taren, as did Sam and Var each very much enjoying what they were about. Sam had nothing but good words for Captain Uinse, who ran a _very_ tight Citadel with a ferocious program of training, and to whom the improbable pairing of the dog Jump and Keladry’s former warhorse Peachblossom actually reported ; while Var returned from accompanying Master Kuriaju to visit Mistress Fanche’s and Master Saefas’s mine burbling enthusiasm about cross-vaulted adits, wheeled carts for hauling coal, and petrified spidren-web masks that kept you from breathing dust. She and her clothing had been remarkably filthy, but a hot bath, generous payment to a laundress, and purchase of a protective overall solved the problem, and Var’s happiness was worth anything.

All in all, therefore, Beltane was a welcome day of rest and chance to give proper thanks, and his enthusiasm ramped up as he saw children stringing lines of icelight-beads along rooves and paths. As dusk drew down their brightening glimmer lent a magical air, and though all would rise before dawn the evening was celebratory. They ate second shift in the messhall, the hum of conversation loud until Keladry rose to ask all to assemble outside, where those who’d dined first shift and many immortals were waiting. They followed her to the centre of the green, where benches surrounded the flagpole, and after quieting the crowd she gave brisk instructions for the morrow. Some were for the benefit of newcomers, but all were reminded attendance at dawn offerings was required, of shifted meal times, and the need to watch littles carefully, especially once fires were lit. Then she became reflective.

“Dom and I were away at Ostara, so I’m reckoning from Imbolc, and a lot has happened in that time. Our immortal numbers have risen, not only with the fighting ogres joining my Clanchief’s Guard — I’ll be presenting the Stone Tree Nation’s three youngest members tomorrow, and four successful hatchings in a row is very good news for all sorts of reasons.” Stormwings perched on rooves cackled agreement. “And besides my own contribution, waiting on Samradh, there are six babies to present, all doing well, as their mothers are, so that’s good too. And you got a lot done in my absence, with ploughing and sowing, all the roadwork, the Guild offices in the fin completed, and hot-water pipes up and running, literally, so my thanks to all. But there’s plenty more to do.”

“Always, Lady Kel.”

Uinse’s interjection brought grins, and Keladry grinned back.

“You’d be disappointed if I slacked off, Uinse, but even for us the next week six weeks are going to be a bustle. I know I’ve started a lot of new work since I got back, with the greenhouse and Pilgrims’ quarters as well as getting going on the Pilgrim’s Way, but believe me, we’ll need them all. Now, the Way will take months, but I want all other building completed as soon as possible, because there’s another large project to sort out. His Majesty is creating a fourth company of the King’s Own, to be stationed here — but where, exactly? The Citadel won’t hold another hundred plus men and horses, and they aren’t needed here anyway, but I haven’t decided where to put them. Wherever it is, though, it’ll have to be built properly, so let’s get other stuff done and dusted soonest, please. And the second thing is that nearer Samradh we’re going to have a lot of visitors, not only because the twins’ Nameday is bringing members of Dom’s and my families and other guests. The Guild is holding tests, several dragons are seeking Journeybeing status, which requires an observer from the Dragonmeet, and I suspect there’ll be more than one. Skysong, Amir’aan, and Cloestra are due rewards for exceptional conduct in Yaman, as is Tobe, and there’ll be witnesses for that, too. Then I gather another group of darkings will be coming to join the Guild, and Queen Barzha tells me some stormwings are likely to tag along. So I want New Hope looking its best. The cleaning this week has been good, but if anything else could use sprucing up or fixing, get to it, please. That’s it for me, except to thank you all again for your hard work. Dom?”

The Count rose, giving his wife a wry look as she stepped down.

“Besides the usual, which I’ll get to, two things. First, with extra training sessions for the Clanchief’s Guard we’ll be using the range at unusual times, so make sure you look before you cross it, and all parents, please reinforce that with your children. St’aara will remind them, and we’ll redo the warning-sign by the playground, but you tell them too, loud and clear and often. We don’t need accidents. Second, with the guests at Samradh we’ll need extra grooms for a week or three, so if anyone who can handle horses wants to earn some coin have a word with Sergeant Garran at the Corral.”

He paused to sip water, and Taren wondered how he could adapt this practice of feast-eve addresses, and what he would have to say to his liegers if he did.

“So to the usual, which for anyone new is that Kel resolutely leaves herself out of her summaries, and this time she had a lot to leave out. You’ve all heard stories and I have no intention of repeating them, but our rather eventful time in Yaman had consequences you should know about. First, the Guild is now recognised there, with a branch in Heian-kyó, the imperial capital. Second, Kel’s title as Protector was also recognised, which gives her Yamani rank equal to anyone except the emperor. Third, we have a clear precedent that any attack on an immortal of the Guild will be answered with Immortals’ Justice, which is immediate and final. And fourth, we have a significant new trade in food — Yamani bulk rice and pickles coming this way, for us and the pilgrims, and our luxury pickles going that way, so production has to ramp up. Lady Yukimi is coming at Samradh to oversee that, and there’ll be jobs in production and transport, so anyone interested should talk to Mistress Fanche or Master Saefas. Duke Baird and Sir Neal will be here too, so healers, be sure to have a list of cases where you could use help.”

He drank again.

“Now, there’s been surprise about the scale of the pilgrims’ facilities and the priority given the Way, but as Kel says they _will_ be needed. A lot of Yamanis saw her organise that Immortals’ Justice, which involved the Wild Hunt and ended in the petrification of a senior lord and his allies, and a lot more heard her having a nice long chat with Lord Sakuyo when his temple was dedicated, so they wound up feeling very respectful indeed and telling all their friends. And as pilgrims will mostly be on foot, even with the new Way they’ll take twelve days or more from Mindelan — which means wayhouses, and those need keepers. It’ll be a family job, with food, linens, and stabling, so if anyone is interested, or knows of likely candidates, talk to me, please, soon. The Way will cross a lot of unsettled land, some quite wild, but there’s no worry about safety. The fighting spidrens and imperial samurai who came back with us are an advance guard, and when the rest arrive they’ll have responsibility for guarding the Way. But there’s more to it, because it will be our main route to Mindelan, and make settlement of arable valleys practical, so both we and His Grace of Mindelan will be looking for farmers. Pass that word too, please.”

He held up a hand, quieting the buzz of interested conversation as people took in the many opportunities there would be.

“And one last thing, which I’ll do on your behalves as well as my own, to save you the risk. Kel, love, you’ve thanked us for hard work, rightly, and we thank you for your care of all. Yaman could have worked out very differently, and that it didn’t is down to you, as Lord Sakuyo agreed. My heart was in my mouth more often than I like, but I couldn’t be prouder of you, and so should everyone be. You’ve helped Yaman, reinforced our treaty with them, and made New Hope stronger and more prosperous than ever, and all our liegers thank you for it. And I do adore you.”

Taren had watched Keladry flush while Domitan spoke, but her face softened with his last words and she let him pull her back up onto the bench and into a tight embrace. The cheering and applause were loud and prolonged, from immortals as much as mortals, quieting only when Keladry swept them all a bow, and even then she had to raise her voice.

“You’re welcome, and that’s quite enough of that. I’ll see you at dawn.”

She stepped down, Domitan following, and gave Tobe a hug before going to Peachblossom and wrapping her arms around his neck. Taren had been introduced to the notorious gelding, and thought that however Keladry might not hold his kinship with Joren against him, Peachblossom had his doubts on the matter, so he gathered Sam and Var and they headed for their rooms. He had taken to keeping a journal of what he was learning, and after adding an account of the feast-eve address, and the way opportunities were being anticipated, read for a while — a detailed history of Yaman Keladry had lent him — and sought his bed.

The ceremony at dawn was in itself unremarkable, simple offerings made, and the various newborns and newly hatched named in the sight of all, but made vividly memorable by resonant chimes that rang again and again, and the huge crowd. The main gates had opened an hour before dawn, and the whole population of the valley seemed to have come, all in holiday best. They filled the main level, scores of immortals crowding the terrace on either side of the shrines. Keladry was wearing a wonderful deep red dress, and wrapped a towel round one arm so young stormwings could perch as she named them to her liegers and the gods, and when they also received chimes adult stormwings seemed deeply amused, and other immortals interested. With the ceremony complete Taren caught Master Kuriaju’s eye as he came down from the terrace, and asked about it. The ogre shook his head.

“More changes, Lord Taren. The gods don’t usually bother with immortals unless we’re in their way, but stormwings made themselves useful in Yaman carrying news they swore to by gods’ oaths, duly acknowledged, which they found funny as such oaths don’t actually bind immortals. It seems to have carried over, or maybe it’s because Lady Kel was doing the presenting.”

“It’s funny to be acknowledged by the gods?”

“If you’re a stormwing.”

Taren took that with him to breakfast, mulling the many collocations of _divine_ and _humour_ that New Hope generated, and when Domitan came in found him more helpfully informative.

“Kuriaju’s right about the gods’ oaths in Yaman, but Kel’s affecting stormwings and other immortals in many ways, and quite a few involve gods. Stormwings need strong emotions to feed well, which is a problem in peacetime, but having them fly with the Wild Hunt is a new answer. The Stone Tree Nation’s birthrate is up as well, and one reason we’re expecting those winged visitors is to negotiate more eggwifery, Kel calls it — help with their equivalent of breech births, and problems incubating steel eggs. Then other immortals are finding the Mortal Realm a lot more attractive with New Hope and the Guild in it, so I suppose you could say there are diplomatic issues arising about migration here from the Divine Realms, and the whole business with dragons, whatever it was exactly. And Kel got the gods to agree to make mates for tauroses, though I have no idea whether that’s happened yet.”

Taren stared, and Domitan gave a crooked smile.

“I know, but just file under _Kel_. The gods seem to want better relations between mortals and immortals, which is one reason they’re so generous to New Hope, so I’m not surprised their relations with immortals are shifting too, and I take the chimes for hatchlings this morning as another sign of it. They all came from the egg knowing their names, so it’s not like babies, but it does acknowledge the gods as superiors, and as flying with the Hunt needs Lord Weiryn’s approval Queen Barzha’s happy with that. Anyway, Kel asked me to tell you that she has things to do this morning — spellmirror calls to family, mostly — but has asked Olimiariaju, Quenuresh, and others to be available this afternoon for the conversation you want. Does it need to be private?”

“I really don’t know what the answers to my questions might be, so I would prefer that.”

“On the house terrace, then. It’s open, but people will respect our privacy.” Domitan grimaced. “I have to go and choose yet more clothing. Mrs Spinner is relentless. What are you doing in the meanwhile?”

“Collecting old webbing from Quenuresh, then I’m not sure.”

“The centaurs and quite a few craftsmen and –women from around the valley take advantage to set up booths. Leatherwork, pottery, embroidery, and the like, and food stalls. You’ll find them along the Road south of the Stone Bridge, if you’re interested.”

Taren was, as were Var and Sam, so once he’d seen to his business with Quenuresh, who had been very pleased with a variety of cheese she said she hadn’t had in a long while, and would accumulate more old webbing against their eventual departure, they collected Vesker and five men, as much with possible purchases in mind as an escort, and headed to the Road. Centaurs had pride of place hard by the stone bridge, where traffic from all directions had to pass, and were offering fine metalwork, buckles and brooches, as well as fletched arrows, saddles, and tack. With Midwinter and birthday gifts in mind, Taren had no hesitation in buying several small things, and a saddle for Svein that would be delivered to Lady Kel’s house. The centaurs weren’t uncivil but didn’t invite conversation, and were doing brisk business, so they went on, finding a rich variety of craftwork on offer, most from mortals but some from basilisks and ogres. None of them had ever thought of immortal art, but it turned out ogres whittled intricately fascinating abstract shapes, while basilisks carved both figurative and abstract designs. The guards’ burdens grew, and Taren rewarded them with spicy meat patties and sweet rolls.

Everyone was having a good time, snatches of overheard conversation revealing a fascinating range of understandings of the fief. Worries about immortals and divine carryings-on were limited to newer arrivals, old hands offering reassurance, and in all there was a fierce respect for and gratitude to their liegelady, well mixed with wonder and wry head-shaking. The great dome of the greenhouse, complete but awaiting orange and lemon saplings ordered from the far south, attracted much admiring comment, with keen anticipation of better supply and lower prices ; understanding that the pilgrim tide would bring opportunity was also widespread, and if there was some raillery about strange Yamani habits and tastes, there was no malice in any of it that Taren could hear. Heading back, with pauses to look at stalls they’d passed by before, they met the Yamani who’d been laying matting in the tea-room, discovering that he was Blessed Matsuo, had seen Lord Sakuyo at the dedication, and was happy to tell the tale, even without a proffer of refreshments.

It was a good deal more detailed than the King had managed and quite differently shaped, with the Most Blessed Protector- _sensei_ called to Yaman by Lord Sakuyo as his favourite daughter, and given a freer hand than she had known at the time to act against those who were most impiously disrespecting the High One, and most worryingly defying His Imperial Majesty. Having come to New Hope directly from Edo, Matsuo had not seen the _Sekkinukesaku_ , but described the image of what he called the Day of Stone Justice that Lord Sakuyo had painted amid his representation of the dedication itself, and had very interesting things to say of one Blessed Hidetaki, formerly First _kamunushi_ of the High One, and how wonderfully wrong he had been about everything, with the Most Blessed Protector- _sensei_ ’s heart-wrenching grace towards him. They were also shown, reverently, a handkerchief wrapped in silk and bearing intertwined _kanji_ that Matsuo said meant _Protector_ and _Sakuyo_ , and told of how they had fallen by the hundred from thin air in acknowledgement of that grace.

It left them all with renewed astonishment and an enriched sense of what Keladry meant about Lord Sakuyo being all grace and hot needles. Vesker and the guards were most surprised by the reported tenor of divine conversation, but Taren found he had accepted what the King had said about her chatting with the god ; what he hadn’t grasped before was how ruthlessly that god had used her, and how surprised (if delighted) he had been at the precise, shattering power she had harnessed and applied. Taren was, however, in complete agreement with Vesker’s shock at the idea of a god who made you laugh so hard your eyes and nose ran, and then dropped a handkerchief in your lap, though he did point out that Keladry always carried many herself, so Lord Sakuyo had been complimenting her with a further joke.

With all the food stalls and the prospect of an evening feast, lunch in the messhall was minimal, and once he’d eaten he went to the shrines to acknowledge Lord Sakuyo’s blessings and ask for clarity of mind and understanding in the conversation to come. Quenuresh was already on the house terrace, other immortals beginning to gather, and with a detour to his room to collect what was needed he headed there himself, Sam and Var in tow. Chairs for mortals and ogres were set in a loose circle, with spaces for Quenuresh, Var’istaan and St’aara with Amir’aan, and the considerable bulk of Kawit ; there were also perches for two stormwings, introduced as Queen Barzha and Cloestra. They were soon joined by Keladry, Domitan, and Tobeis, accompanied by Master Numair, Mistress Daine, and Lady Skysong, who scrambled into the Wildmage’s lap. Keladry made herself comfortable as several sparrows sperched on her shoulders, and looked around.

“Well, I think that’s everyone, so off we go. A tale of stone and fire, you said, Taren?”

“Yes, but one I’m not sure I understand at all. It was Elimiaju who first raised the question, and I hope for some advice and better understanding. I also have an offer I hope it is right to make.”

He set out what Elimiaju had said about Bard Olimiariaju’s ballad of speaking stone, resonances with the name and unhappy recent history of Stone Mountain, and events in Yaman, Sam and Var chipping in.

“So I suppose my questions are, first, what, if anything, the stone of Stone Mountain might be trying to say to me, and how I can hear it ; and second, whether there is in any of this a greater message I should be striving to heed, and if so what it might be.”

There was a contemplative silence before Keladry stirred.

“Well, Elimiaju’s right those are interesting questions, Taren. You wrote the ballad, Olimiariaju. First thoughts?”

The old ogre rumbled a sigh. “That I need some second and third ones, Protector. We have the speech of the stone here, and the speech of the gods, but if stone elsewhere in Tortall and Yaman is speaking to the same purpose then we are dealing with the Timeway.”

_Certainly. But there is the speech of fire also, to which both gods and dragons are more attuned._

“Do you know what it’s saying, Kawit?”

_Not entirely, Protector. Here it was of approval of changes you wrought and guided, and that approval, like the stone’s, was shared with the gods and accepted by the Timeway. But Yaman is more complicated. The burning of Lord Fujiwara’s compound was merely a deed of unhappy mortals, but it is true that Skysong’s and Amiir’aan’s natural means of self-defence brought from you a response that pleased gods and immortals alike, and has been accepted by the Timeway. As to Stone Mountain, though I can well believe its stone involved, I have heard of nothing fire might have said there._

“Is there anything, Taren?”

“Not in the sense of actual burning, no, unless the foundries count. We have plenty of molten ore, which you might call fire and stone together.” He took a breath. “I did wonder if they had resented the uses to which Genlith perverted the metal we make from them.”

No-one laughed, and Taren relaxed a little, seeing Keladry give him an appreciative if ironic glance.

“That I cannot say, Lord Taren, though I would not rule it out.” Master Kuriaju spoke slowly, thinking as he went. “But you came here to ask for our aid in improving safety in the mines at Stone Mountain, and with Lady Varia told me of shoddy delving and far too many accidents. Stone will co-operate if you treat it well, and does not like to be left weakened. Nor is it always indifferent to the lives it takes. I wonder therefore if your stone desired change for the better, and whether you may already be heeding it, in coming here. How say you, Var’istaan?”

“Basilisks do not hear stone as ogres do. We work it, eat it, and make it. But I agree about its attitude to proper care, and being weakened, so your thought seems reasonable to me.”

“And to me, though I hear neither stone nor fire.” Quenuresh also sounded thoughtful. “But I am of an age when the Timeway is becoming clearer to my eyes, and its great force here, working through the Protector, boosted that. There are eddies before a roil, as well as after, and Blayce’s necromancy was among them. So too, I think, were the machinations and impieties of Lord Fujiwara and his mother. It does not seem strange to me that events at Stone Mountain, helping to shape you, Protector, should carry echoes of any speech stone and fire made to the Timeway. But I wonder if that speech does not itself echo two others we have yet to name, older and wiser still, and roused not so long ago.”

Lady Skysong swivelled in the Godborn’s lap as she spoke.

“You mean Father Universe and Mother Flame, Quenuresh?”

“I do. Our teaching says all fire and life is hers, and all matter his, including stone.”

“Her, yes, but he sounded to me as an essence of the void and dark. I didn’t think of stone at all.”

“The void is created by gathering matter in particular places, though.” Master Numair scratched his head. “And they were by all accounts quite cross with Uusoae, whose remnants were active here, so I think I wonder too, Magelet.”

“Diamondflame once said to me that the Timeway existed before either of them, and would exist after them.”

 _That is correct, Protector, so far as we know._ Kawit sounded amused. _But not even Rainbow Windheart can tell what it might say to them, or they to it._

“Oh I don’t know, Kawit. This kind of thing makes my brain hurt, but as gods and older immortals sense the Timeway more clearly, Mother Flame and Father Universe must sense it even better, yes? And _don’t_ ask for details, anyone, because I have no idea, but I’m pretty sure one thing about the roil was a rebuke to the gods, and I know the biggest part of what His Nibs was up to in Yaman was one of their answers, in the form of _kenkouji_ , a healthy child. And he was working in stone and sunlight, which is pretty much fire, while the only thing I really know about the Timeway is that it likes its echoes and has irony down cold. So what would make sense to me, though that’s not quite the word, is that it _is_ all connected. And whatever remains unknowable, that would mean two, no three things for you, Taren, and for Saman and Varia. One is that your suffering had purpose, and your liegers’, to make you the people you are, better and stronger than either of your parents. Two is that the changes at Stone Mountain caused by Joren’s death and your father’s abdication were a part of the Timeway’s roil, as much as events here and in Yaman. And three is that Kuriaju is right that you are already heeding what you should. You were moved to better care of your liegers and their children, and came here to offer reconciliation, gladly accepted. So it’s another of those yes and no things. You’re right to ask questions and wrong to worry about what the answers might be. I think.”

Queen Barzha laughed as Quenuresh hissed.

“Such a _very_ wise Protector you are, these days. I concur. But I will add one thing, that it is not over yet, whatever it is. Even in this Mortal Realm, where there are echoes everything is double or more, and the Timeway’s echoes are infinite. Why mortals speak of shoes dropping I have never understood, but I will bet there is at least one yet to do so.”

“Several, I should think, and a boot with them.” Quenuresh’s teeth glinted as she smiled. “But Barzha is right about wisdom, Protector. I have thought before that if you cannot see the Timeway as Kawit, Barzha, and I do, you yet sense it as clearly as any. It _did_ choose you to rest on, and using the Staff of Knowledge had effects that linger.”

“Tell me.” Keladry frowned. “Neither Wuodan nor His Nibs named it to me.”

“Mithros probably told them not to but there is no ban on its naming.”

“No.” Numair looked fascinated. “I wondered, Kel, from your account, but I’ve never read any detailed description. I must write yours down.”

“Gah. If you must, Numair, but I’ll have to tell Avinar when he gets here to grill me, and I’m not telling anyone else. Mortals don’t need to know, anyway. Not their business. And not our business now. In any case, I think that’s all the answers we can give you, Taren, until Olimiariaju has some second and third thoughts, anyway.”

The old ogre gave Keladry a long look, but smiled. “I am already up to seventh, Protector, but I too concur with your judgement. And with Elimiaju’s, who thought stone spoke not to Lord Taren but through him, as it does through you. Fire also, or Diamondflame would never have gifted you with the dragons’, following Weiryn and the sunbirds’. And we might recall they gave dragons feathers for the asking, for the runes, knowing they would be placed here. Who knows what they know, in whose light Chaos may be read by those with eyes to see?”

“Gah. Again. I’ve had enough of Chaos for several lifetimes, and so have Daine and Numair. But the sunbirds’ willingness has struck me before, so thank you, Olimiariaju. Now, Taren, you mentioned an offer you had in mind, but about which you were uncertain?”

“I did, Keladry, and I think I was right to trust my instincts, but it’s your call. My forebears at Stone Mountain invested some of their ridiculous profits in gemstones, among them a ruby named long ago, by mortal standards. It is the Firestone, and after Elimiaju told me of his ideas I thought coincidence should be heeded, so I wondered if you would like it as an emblem of your office as Guildmaster. It’s too big for a ring or brooch, but I thought a staff or rod of office.” Ogres’ whittling jogged his imagination. “If an ogre might carve one, and a basilisk petrify it with the Firestone emplaced …”

Taren took the wrapped and cased gem from his pocket, and was about to fish it out when intuition prickled, and instead held out the velvet bag for Keladry. She stared at him before she took it.

“Taren, are you sure? I know very little about gems but a ruby with a name must be extremely valuable.”

He replied with care. “I am sure in myself, Keladry. Stone Mountain does not need it, and has had it locked away in a dark vault for more than a century. Here it might shine, and do some good, and if you think you can use it, and find it fitting to do so, I am happy to give it freely, not to you in person but to the Guild. I said nothing about it before only because I would not seem to buy forgiveness or alliance.”

She nodded, taking the velvet bag. “Alright, Taren. That I can appreciate. Let’s see what we’re dealing with.” She tipped the case from the bag, and opened it, eyes widening. “Goddess! It’s enormous.”

She carefully lifted the stone from its recess, holding it up for all to see, and as it left the shadow of her body for the light of the runes it blazed in her hand, deep reds tinged with oranges flaring so brightly that Taren’s eyes watered. He felt silence spread, and knew many were staring. Even when Keladry shielded it again with her body it continued to glow brightly as if it held radiance like an icelight, vibrantly alive as it had never been in the goldsmith’s vault. Her hands shone red where she held it. After a long moment Queen Barzha spoke, voice very dry.

“Well, that’s a yes, and no mistaking. Air and steel may be my true elements, but I am not Queen of the Stone Tree Nation for nothing, and my eyes have just been deafened by the Firestone’s speech.”

“Mine too.” Quenuresh was blinking tears, as Taren still was himself ; only Keladry seemed unaffected that way. “And it comes to me that there is an old prophecy of one who will light all three realms with a stone staff of fire, though I had not thought it a mistranslation.”

Kawit nodded, saying something in a language Taren had never heard.

_That is an interesting thought, Quenuresh. And if I am not mistaken, the seer was of the mortal nation encompassing the territory where that ruby was found. I remember hearing word of such a discovery some thirty centuries ago, but it did not then have a name. Darking Ebony, please be sure Diamondflame and Rainbow know of this._

“Fun?”

The squeak came from Keladry’s collar, and Kawit nodded again.

_I expect so, little one._

“Good. Telling now.”

Keladry let the Firestone fall into her lap and, as Lady Skysong jumped down and went to peer at it, rested her head in her hands.

“Gah. For the third time. But don’t mind me.”


	6. Chapter Five -- Travels and Troubles

**Five : Travels and Troubles**

_New Hope, 2–15 May, 464 HE_

 

WITH guests due any time after the ides of May, Keladry wanted to undertake necessary travel promptly, and as the twins made her unwilling to be away for more than two nights, despite the availability of wet nurses, there would be two trips, one to the west, the other to Dragonstown. One day after Beltane was needed to clear up and settle everyone back into routine, but they would depart the following morning. Sam was more interested to continue training, and needed no guarding in the Citadel, but Var wanted to see what the Yamani engineers were about, so Vesker and his men would accompany them. Keladry, dealing with yet more paperwork, raised no objection, though she did observe that inns and wayhouses would be on the crowded side.

“Vanget’s coming, and I’m taking all the ogres and Scanrans, Taren, because they need integrating, and if anything comes up they cut through the legalities.”

“With fief and army command, you mean?”

He frowned, not seeing how that applied, and she shook her head.

“Worse than that. Hang on a moment.” She found and unrolled a large map showing northern Tortall and southern Scanra, with the rough diamond of New Hope in the centre. “Fief and army command is just in Tortall. The Scanran half is a different problem, because my army command stops at the frontier and I have no authority to deploy any of His Majesty’s soldiers to another country. Which means, on paper, that none of the four companies nominally stationed here can go north of the Vassa, nor to Dragonstown as that’s in Scanra, properly speaking.”

Taren stared, taking it in. “And in practice?”

“I did a _lot_ of talking with Jorvik Hamrsson and the rest of the Council of Ten, and they and the King agreed to a fudge. Uinse’s New Hope First, who have the Citadel, and Dom’s Second, at the Corral, remain regular army, and have to do so for at least another three years, until service in lieu of imprisonment is cleared. But Brodhelm’s Third, who patrol, and Mikal’s Fourth, at Dragonstown, wear my livery over army maroon, and though the King pays their wages the Council recognises them as Clansmen of Hléoburh. That’s very helpful, but the whole muddle is one reason I was happy to accept the fighting ogres’ service, because nobody can tell me what to do or not do with them.”

“And I thought Stone Mountain’s politics were complicated. Huh. The ogres and Scanrans came while you were away, I gather.”

“Yes, a nice coming-home present. But I knew the ogres might, from Kuriaju. They’ve figured war’s going to be in short supply round here for a while, thank the gods, and decided it’s a good time to raise children.”

“Oh. I haven’t seen their wives.”

“Yes you have. You just didn’t recognise them as female. Ogres don’t have any silly ideas about women not fighting, and the group is twenty mated pairs. I’m told that in the later stages of pregnancy — and gestation is fourteen months, Goddess help them — the women become, ah, fuller-figured, and will need maternity leave, but until then they’re at full strength.”

“And the Scanrans?”

“They’re down to Ragnar, mostly. Ragnar Ragnarsson, Clanchief Somalkt. We got on at the peace talks, then he came to my wedding, on principle, and insisted a clanchief ought to have a proper Clanchief’s Guard. And as I didn’t have twenty large Scanran axemen to hand, he bent Jorvik’s ears relentlessly and they came up with a clever scheme. Each of the twenty largest clans nominated one man, and I insisted they all have their letters, so now I have a proper clanchief’s dignity, for my sins, and my twenty most important peers each get a monthly report of whatever I’ve been up to.” She grinned. “Vanget’s still laughing about the first ones they had to write, on Yaman, but I spoke to Jorvik and Ragnar by spellmirror, so the Council will get something resembling the truth.”

“You don’t mind being watched like that?”

“No. It would happen anyway, soothes crankier clanchiefs, and spreads word nicely, especially as more than half the men have families with them, all now sending excited letters home. With long northern winters Scanrans will want icelights too, and hoick’ems are going to be in great demand everywhere. Cross-training is coming along nicely, as well. The King did raise an eyebrow at having Scanran troops in Tortall, but even if my Clanchief status wasn’t formally recognised here, which it is, they’d be covered by noble privilege. But we’re wandering. Point is, First and Second here, Third mobile, Fourth at Dragonstown. And the question is, where do I put the King’s Own Fourth? Can’t be Scanra, legally, nor here, practically, but can’t be too far away either, because they’ll be working with armoured spidrens and samurai to guard the Pilgrims’ Way. So I’m wondering about Greenwoods Junction” — her finger rested on the north end of the valley, where Great North and Vassa Roads merged, then slid west to where they had formerly met — “or Vassa Junction. I can see advantages and drawbacks to each, so I need a look.”

“I’ve never had any military training. May I ask what advantages and drawbacks?”

“Greenwoods Junction is less isolated, and sees a lot more traffic. Building there would be easier logistically, and the men would be happier, as well as under my eyes. But although I have no regrets about diverting the Great North Road, that did no favours to the settlement at Vassa Junction. It’s small, and there was never that much traffic because the only place wagon-trains can be going to or from is Frasrlund or haMinch holdings, and Ennor deals far more by sea than land while Ferghal tends to ship down the Drell. But they’ve lost out, and once the Pilgrims’ Way is open they’ll lose out even more, so an army station would be welcomed. It would also bring that section of the old North Road back into fuller use.”

“Which you want?”

“Not particularly, but it isn’t covered by my agreement with the Wild Hunt. Nor is the Vassa Road, except for the stretch where it’s also Great North. It would take some spectacularly bold or stupid bandits, and I’m not expecting any, but if anywhere in the Tortallan half is going to have that sort of trouble it might be there.”

_We would smell bandits on any road, Protector._

Taren froze as a mindvoice quite unlike that of dragons rolled into his head, but Keladry only turned, eyebrows rising, to look at the _enormous_ hound who had pushed open the door and was padding in.

“Hello, Wuodan. I wondered if you might turn up yesterday, but you have good timing, as usual. How are you?”

_All the better for our Hunt, Protector. Weiryn and Sarra did not come yesterday because they are saving themselves for your children’s nameday. And Frige and I have been talking to Weiryn about the stormwings. We are all interested in Barzha’s clever idea._

“Good. She’ll be pleased. And I’ll tell Daine about her parents — she was wondering. This is Lord Taren of Stone Mountain, by the way. Taren, meet Wuodan. He and Frige lead the Wild Hunt.”

Taren bowed, stomach churning as fire flickered in the hound’s eyes.

 _Greetings, Taren of Stone Mountain._ A large nose sniffed him up and down thoughtfully. _You carry much guilt that is not rightly yours. Is the Protector making you lay it down?_

“Um … That covers it, yes, my lord.”

_I am no mortal lord, Taren, and bear no titles. But that is good. False guilt is a false scent, of use to none. You again do well, Protector. But I came to tell you that we have agreed our guardianship of travellers here will extend to the Pilgrims’ Way._

Keladry’s eyebrows rose again, and Wuodan’s tongue lolled. Taren had an impression that he was amused by something.

“Really? It’s not the Great North Road.”

 _It is a spur, and built to sacred purpose. Why should we not protect those who travel in piety?_ Keladry gave Wuodan a look. _Besides, Weiryn says we need the exercise, and he isn’t wrong._

“Mmm. Well, I shan’t say no, Wuodan, so thank you, and to all. There will be spidrens and samurai on that job, though, as well as men from the King’s Own.”

_That is well enough. Watching them all spar will be interesting._

“There’s that.” Keladry’s voice was dry. “Any other news I should know?”

_Nothing that matters, Protector. Your fame spreads in all Realms, and your actions in Yaman have left many gods in high good humour, so they wait to see how you will next entertain and surprise them._

Keladry closed her eyes for a long moment, and Taren’s sense of Wuodan’s amusement deepened.

“Good for them. Do give Frige my best.”

_Of course. Fare well, until we meet again, Protector. And you, Taren of Stone Mountain._

Wuodan padded out again, startling Mandrinal, who greeted him and came in shaking his head.

“Oh my poor heart. It’s bad enough when you see him coming. What did he want, Lady Kel?”

“To flatter, tease, and tell me the Hunt will guard the Pilgrims’ Way, which they deem a spur of the Great North Road.”

“Oh. That’s … an odd argument. But it’s good of them. Isn’t it?”

“More or less, but he seems very pleased with himself, and I’ll bet there were things he wasn’t saying, though what is anyone’s guess. Oh well, we’ll see. Do you have the figures for the silver tax this quarter?”

Mandrinal did, and Taren left them to it. He found himself disturbed by the encounter, not simply because Wuodan was a divine being, and more than a little frightening, but by the tones of the conversation. There was obviously respect and affection, or what seemed it, on both sides, but the hound’s teasing had also been evident, with reciprocal exasperation, and the idea of gods waiting to be entertained did not sit well with him. In all his thinking about Lord Sakuyo’s jests he had not imagined their divine reception, and certainly not that the response might be a demand for more ; Keladry’s taste for irreverence abruptly made a great deal more sense, and the prospect of meeting Lord Weiryn and the Green Lady at Samradh became even more worrying. There was also Wuodan’s casual identification and condemnation of the guilt he was just learning to let go as false, and while he knew that was true he also found himself slightly indignant ; but there was nothing to be done about it, and he went to check on Vesker’s packing and complete his own.

Sam saw them off early next morning, wishing the Scanrans well in their own tongue, and as they descended the roadway, half-a-dozen sparrows excitedly whirling around, Taren thought about the ways in which being at New Hope was making them all wiser. Language and weapons skills were the least of it, though Vesker admitted he and all the men had already sharpened up considerably ; exposure to the long and inhuman perspectives of immortals, and the shining force that was Keladry, seemed to leave the world looking very different. But the pleasures of the moment were more compelling than philosophy, for the day was fine, the sights interesting, and he was in excellent company, next to Var behind Keladry and Vanget, with Scanrans ahead and trotting ogres flanking all. Keladry pointed out the rebuilt rockfalls that had crushed King Maggur’s commissariat and Spidren Wood, but otherwise said little until they came to Greenwoods Junction. Settlement in the valley had thinned a mile or two back, where it narrowed and bent north as the eastern hills grew rockier, but the Junction had the same four buildings around it as at Greenwoods Fork, smithy, inn, stables, and a fief office flying Keladry’s flag. As they dismounted he asked her if she’d had them built at every larger waymeet, and she shook her head.

“Only where an inn was needed. It’s nearly thirty miles from Dragonstown to here, and not much less from Vassa Junction, so for many travellers fifteen more to the Citadel is too far for one day.”

Their arrival drew a liveried sergeant from the fief office, with grooms and the innkeep to see if anything were wanted, and she gave brisk orders to care for the horses, saying they’d be on their way in an hour or less, before turning to the man.

“Good morning, Sergeant Ellis.”

“And to you, Lady Kel. I’ve had a think and a look around since I had your note, but I can’t say there’s anywhere I’d care to have to build a fort of the size you want.”

Keladry looked for herself all the same, walking a little way up each road with sparrows swirling, and Taren had to agree with the sergeant. The hillsides south of the Vassa Road were steep and thickly wooded, with occasional crags visible, and the best of the Greenwoods Valley bottom was already fenced for pasture, while to the north there was only a narrow strip of land by the riverbank. Fief office and smithy fitted well enough, but a fort would not, and the Vassa was forbidding. It was the first time he’d seen the great river, save from the Eyrie, and it was no Olorun, the swiftness of the current clearly visible in the rippled surface. He said as much, and Keladry nodded.

“Oh yes. The Vassa keeps what it takes, they say, and it’s not a river to mess with. The basilisks revetted the bank for me, when we were building, so we shouldn’t get any erosion here, but the spring thaw can see a fair amount of damage.” She turned, scanning south again, and shrugged. “We could excavate, I suppose, but it’d be a longer job than I’d like. Oh well. On to Vassa Junction we go.”

The Vassa Road had yet to receive basilisk attention, but was well built and during the war had been thoroughly maintained, so they made good time. The river was too strong to meander, but bent with the lie of the land, and though mostly following it closely the Road did once cut an angle, rising and falling over a low ridge. Watching the sparrows, flitting ahead and on each side, and rotating short rest periods on Keladry’s shoulders or saddle, accepting grain or nuts from her pockets, Taren realised they were scouting with consistent discipline, and wondered that it seemed only a sensible arrangement. They stopped to eat at noon, well-filled rolls for mortals and better-filled long loaves for ogres ; the fighting kind were just as vegetarian as miners and farmers, and as one called Moriju told Var needed bulk to keep up their strength. Some miles further on the Vassa angled north to greet a small but vigorous tributary on the Scanran side, and Keladry pulled up, gazing across at the naith, a sturdy wooden bridge that carried the trail on the further bank over the tributary, and the bank to the west, before riding on.

“If I could use the Scanran side and there was a bridge over the Vassa as well as the Drausir, that might do nicely.” Vanget laughed, and Keladry smiled ruefully. “If wishes were horses, eh? But in time it might make sense to have something there.”

She talked about the difficulties of her Scanran lands, with the continuing abandonment of Rathhausak even more underpopulated than her Tortallan ones. That no-one wanted to live by the burned-out castle that had housed such evil was understandable, but Taren could see that the problem would have to be faced sooner or later. There must after all have been reasons for choosing the Pakkai Valley as a clanseat in the first place, and with the place deserted for nearly three years the game would be rich. Vanget was frowning.

“Could basilisks not demolish the castle completely, Kel? If it didn’t loom over the village, people would be more willing, surely?”

“They could, Vanget, and I’ve thought as much myself. The castle is hard against a cliff, but not elevated, so while it’d be a serious job for a whole bunch of basilisks it could be done. But on its own I don’t think it would be enough. Remember the valley and every village within forty miles bore the brunt of Blayce’s and Stenmun’s terror, and hundreds of children died at Rathhausak. Plenty of adults, too. The Black God has the children safely, but there are ghosts all the same. I need to cleanse it, and that remains beyond me. I should ask Dabeyoun, if I get a chance. He’s still owed his bone-feast.”

Explanations of why Keladry owed the Graveyard Hag’s hyena a feast took a while, and Taren and Var noted that the ogres were just as interested and surprised as Vanget.

“Do you count Dabeyoun among your friends, then, Protector?”

“Certainly, Veliriju, in so far as it’s possible. He and his kin guard Haven for me, and I keep the Hag’s shrine there well maintained. How he feels about me I can’t say, but in Yaman he came when asked, and accepted my caress before he hauled the guilty souls from their stone. Does it bother you?”

“No, Protector, but it is interesting. I have not heard before of that one favouring a mortal.”

“Mmm. Diamondflame said the same, but remember Dabeyoun’s a trickster in his own right, as well as serving the Hag and her father. And you could say I have her blessing, however twistedly, as well as his.”

After that she was silent for a long while, and at Vanget’s discreet signal Taren and Var dropped back to give her what privacy they could.

“Don’t ask.” Vanget spoke so softly Taren had to strain to hear over the staccato of horses’ hooves. “I know no details, and wouldn’t tell you if I did, but that’s to do with her death and return.”

Taren nodded, and tried not to let curiosity niggle. The reports Horgan’s man had relayed had been clear that when she asked three gods to strike down Torhelm, Keladry had sworn by gods’ oath not only that she had died and been returned, but that what had killed her was tauros rape ; and the panel in the New Hope series implied as much. Determined to abjure his uncle’s lechery as much as his father’s pride, Taren remained virgin, and though he had more than once found himself rather too conscious of Keladry’s physical grace and the way she and Domitan looked at one another, he shied from thinking of her like that, scorning such disrespect. Her death was beyond the bounds of decent imagination, and he contented himself with pondering Dabeyoun’s place in the long list of gods and divine beings who walked with her, before getting Var to explain more of the new mathematics.

They came to Vassa Junction in late afternoon, and Taren saw immediately what Keladry had meant in saying the settlement had lost out in the changes she’d wrought. They were expected, and the inn and stables had a bustle about them, but both on the Vassa and former Great North Roads there were buildings in shabby disrepair, the outliers including several that were clearly abandoned. Broken shutters hung loose, roof-tiles were missing, and kitchen gardens had run to seed. Keladry was courteous to the innkeep as they sorted out rooms, with extra pallets in stable lofts and a dusty barn, but her face was set, and once dinner was agreed for dusk went to look around with a determined expression, sparrows in tow. A dozen ogres and as many Scanrans went with her, while others saw to horses, and he, Var, and Vanget tagged along. To Taren a derelict house was a derelict house, and Var and Vanget were equally puzzled by the close attention she was paying them, scratching at grimy stone walls and entering several briefly.

“What are you after, Kel?”

“I’m no basilisk, Vanget, but I’m fairly sure this is the same limestone we cut at New Hope. You find it all along this part of the Vassa valley, but southwards the rock changes. So I think it must have been quarried nearby, and I’m wondering where.”

“No idea. The innkeep might know.”

He did, directing them about half-a-mile south towards Bearsford, where a grassy trail led east around the back of a steep hill. The disused quarry was overgrown with gorse and scrub trees, but its outlines were clear — a ragged semi-circular gouge in the lower hillside, a little over a hundred feet across with sheer walls rising perhaps forty feet — and Keladry came to a halt, staring with hands on hips. Then she veered off the trail to climb slowly around the lip, descending again to enter the quarry. Ogres helped her clear a small patch of scrub, and scraped away a thin layer of soil and mulch, revealing uneven stone. When she came back to them she had a cheerful air.

“Well, that’s more like it.”

“It is?”

Vanget sounded dubious but Var suddenly clapped her hands.

“You want to roof it, Keladry?”

She grinned. “Great minds think alike, Varia. Clear it out, level the footing, and put a glass dome over the whole thing. Limestone’s easy for basilisks to cut, so we can excavate barracks and communal spaces from the walls, and use that ashlar for a curtain-wall round the lip and across the front, as well as stabling and smithy. Even a small garrison could hold that against anything short of an army while they had food and water.” She turned, gesturing. “And there’s plenty of room between here and the Road for pasture, training-field, and ranges. Even a tiltyard.”

Taren was struck with admiration for the vision, and Var was nodding enthusiastically, mind obviously whirring, but Vanget scratched his head.

“You want to put the Own’s Fourth _here_?”

“Why not? It’s twenty-some miles north of Greenwoods Fork, and only ten north of where the Mastiff trail crosses the road. I’ve got to put them somewhere, Vanget.”

“I don’t think the King has a glass-roofed quarry in mind.”

“Tough. He probably wants them at the Citadel but there’s no room.”

“He wasn’t budgeting for new building, and wants you training them, Kel. Put them here and you’ll need to be in even more places at once.”

“True, but that would apply wherever I put them, and it’s less than twenty miles using the Mastiff trail. Besides, half of them will be patrolling the Pilgrims’ Way, and it’s the cross-training with samurai and spidrens that’ll teach them what they need. It will also be quicker than starting from scratch, and the Guild will do the building at cost, as with the College of Arms. What’s really bothering you about it, Vanget?”

“I’m just taking it in, Kel.” Vanget shook his head. “I don’t see things the way you can. We built half-a-dozen forts during the war, and it never occurred to me to do anything except start from scratch.”

“You didn’t have basilisks, and Geraint and the ogres hadn’t invented the round technique.” Keladry clapped Vanget’s shoulder. “Don’t blame yourself for only doing what was possible.”

“And you’ve known about that technique for what, all of a month? But you’ve already applied it to the biggest greenhouse I’ve ever heard of, and now a fort!”

“It’ll be a rather pretty fort, too.” She grinned at Vanget’s look, and Var stifled a laugh. “Come on, it’s dinner-time and I can give my liegers here the good news.”

While they walked back Keladry was already talking to Ebony, head extruded from her collar with a sparrow perched alongside, asking it to relay orders for Master Geraint and others, and once they had eaten — the food good and filling, but nothing to that at the Citadel — she asked the innkeep to assemble adults and older children. They came with wary faces, obviously uneasy about ogres and Scanrans alike, but Keladry’s open acknowledgement of the loss diverting the Great North Road had occasioned them sat them up, and news of a new fort on their doorsteps was a palpable relief. The idea of using the quarry brought blank looks, but Var had helpfully drawn a sketch in her notebook, and young as she was her clear certainty that it would work was persuasive. Keladry wound up by charging them all to clean up the settlement and restore vacant houses properly, anticipating incomers drawn by the fort : horses would need hay, everyone needed food and clothing, and off-duty soldiers would want food, beer, and amusement.

For an hour or so she stayed talking to them, asking about problems and telling them what was and would be happening elsewhere in the fief. Taren could see backs and shoulders straightening, heads held higher, and steps becoming lighter ; seen talking to Var, ogres and Scanrans became less frightening, if not less fearsome, and were approached by bolder children, answering questions and showing their weapons. He recalled the carter and his family, thinking a renewed Vassa Junction with short-haul work to Greenwoods Junction and Fork might suit the man, and when he mentioned it to Keladry her warm smile of thanks as she made a note left him feeling uplifted himself. It was a striking display of leadership and stewardship, and beneath his continuing sense of wonder his admiration for her grew. It also occurred to him that Stone Mountain had disused quarries of its own, and he said as much to Var and Vanget, leading her to become abstracted and starting a quiet, interesting conversation with the general about the many lessons Keladry taught young and old alike.

When they set off again next morning people were already assembling to set about cleaning and repairing, and the renewal of purpose and hope was tangible. Keladry’s mood was lighter, and during the morning she spoke of her childhood in Yaman, recalling with obvious pleasure what sounded like ferocious early training and describing an astonishing variety of pickles. The focus shifted naturally to her more recent visit, and there was some sharply informative discussion with Vanget of the Yamani Temple of Weapons, and its new Tortallan version, before the gated channels of the River Yodo made an appearance. The theory was clear — rapids meant a river falling with the land, and gated channels were a staircase boats could use to bypass them, up or down — but Taren found it hard to visualise, and Var’s face was scrunched in concentration. Vanget, though, had a different concern.

“Got that from that report, Kel. It’s a remarkable idea, and I can see it might work at Little Rapids, because there’s room to build ’em. But at Great Rapids the Road’s squeezed by cliffs. Where do the channels go?”

“There may be room on the Scanran side — that’s one thing we’ll be finding out — but if not, tunnels. Spiir’aan rolled his eyes about cutting that much hard rock, but was rather taken with the idea, I think. Petrin and Kuriaju were much the same, so it’s just work, not a problem. And we can widen the road while we’re about it.”

“Tunnels? Mithros, Kel, that’s …”

“Going to take a while, yes. It all will, Vanget — they reckoned six to eight months at Little Rapids, and I’m guessing two or three years for Great Rapids, depending on basilisk numbers, mostly, and workforce. But once it’s done, it’s done.”

Discussion widened to the reasons Keladry wanted the Vassa opened to navigation and what could be done if it were, the whole given substance when in late morning they came to Little Rapids. The drop in the land over a quarter-mile was clear to the eye, and though the Vassa did not widen it clearly shallowed, water sliding down with a dull roar ; there were no visible rocks in its stream, and Taren thought none would resist erosion for long, but the boil and foam as the land flattened again was enough to make any transit downstream hazardous in the extreme, while the other way was plainly impossible. The Yamani engineers, aided by two squads in maroon embroidered with the New Hope owl and crossed glaives, were marking out shapes in a vast, flattened arc that left the river where it was still calm before paralleling it. Keladry was immediately recognised, and greeted with much bowing before they were introduced, and offered bows themselves. Then the senior engineer walked them through the site, explaining decisions in heavily accented and rather stilted Common.

Seeing the outlines of the first basins brought home the scale of the project, and the stretches between them puzzled Taren until Var, checking with the engineer, who nodded vigorously, explained the problems there would otherwise be.

“I’ve been thinking about it for a while, Tar, because if you have each basin emptying directly into the one below you need to be sure that all the lower basins are empty before you can start down. Making it a series of single chambers is easier than a true staircase, and quicker to use.”

Taren was still thinking it through when the senior Yamani sent the others back to work, and with a lot more bowing began to report to Keladry about what he had found at Great Rapids, some forty miles further downstream. The gist was that there was not enough room on the Scanran side, and while the engineer conceded the principle of tunnelling, he was dubious about something more than the sheer scale but frustrated in trying to explain what. With an apology Keladry switched to Yamani, and a much livelier if more restricted dialogue ensued, with handwaving, during which she made notes in a pocketbook. By the end the engineer seemed less dubious and more intrigued, and she said something with a slight bow that was returned more deeply, and extended to them all before he returned to his fellows.

“Sorry about that, but he’s a great deal clearer in Yamani. What was worrying him was the, mmm, ratio of vertical to horizontal. He says the Vassa drops over a hundred feet in less than a quarter-mile, and with the size of boat I’d specified, and therefore size of gates and basins, he wasn’t happy with a single gate giving more than fifteen feet vertically. That would mean extending the side-channel beyond the tunnel and create all sorts of problems, but he was forgetting petrification.”

She looked at Var, raising an eyebrow.

“Petrifying … the gates, meaning they’re stronger and can hold a much greater weight of water?”

“Exactly.” She gave Var a wide smile. “You’re good at this. Geraint will have fun working out how to hinge and control them, but five basins with twenty-five-foot drops would do it, and I’m fairly sure that’s possible. But it will take three years or so, Vanget, and there are other questions. We’re only guessing about this, but for a boat to use the system will take several hours each way, and while there could be one in each basin, it’ll be one-way traffic at a time — meaning a boat wanting the other direction might have to wait quite a while. And it would need to run one way, then the other. Or we could go for paired basins, one up and one down. I don’t quite understand how the water would flow, but he says that’s not a problem. It would take even longer to do, though. And the same here, or a bit more, so the real question is how much traffic there would be, and whether the extra work and delay now is worthwhile. And that’s partly up to Ferghal, Vanget. Assume the Vassa is safely navigable from haMinch lands to Frasrlund, going down at the speed of the current, plus a day for the two sets of sidechannels, and coming up in maybe three times as long. Would he want to use it rather than the existing arrangements on the Drell?”

Vanget thought for several minutes, and blew out a long breath. “Deciding that’ll take hard numbers, Kel, but unless cost is prohibitive, I think so. There are clear advantages.” Thick fingers extended one by one. “Convenience. We have to haul goods to and from the Drell landings over the Border Hills, which is hard work, but the Vassa’s right there. And anything going to central Tortall or Corus has to be carted on the Great East Road until it can go back to boats on the Olorun, but from Frasrlund it would be a single run to Port Caynn or Legann. Or north to Scanra, and that trade’s set to grow even having to haul overland. Then politics. You want it, Ennor will want it, badly, and Fer will feel that strongly. Jorvik Hamrsson too, I dare say, and he’s already been helpful in several ways. And then there’s that thing we don’t have a word for, your society of the Vassa Valley, which makes good sense to both of us. So strong advantages, and I can’t see any real disadvantages — we’re only a small portion of the Drell trade, so we wouldn’t be doing many people down, and some are our people anyway and could be redeployed.”

“So they could. And there’ll be opportunities as the Vassa trade picks up — places to overnight, chandlers, boatyards, all sorts. Sensible Gallans will be interested too. So how do we want to shape any of that? Confluences, obviously — I want a presence at the Drausir and Smiskir naiths, because roads follow those rivers. But where else, and why?” Keladry rose, stretching. “I thought we could talk about it as we ride. If we eat in the saddle and use the Mastiff trail, we could be back at New Hope for the second dinner sitting.”

Vanget grunted, and Taren thought about what a good thirty-five miles at speed would feel like, blanching slightly, but Var only grinned.

“Missing the twins, Keladry?”

“Ridiculously. And they’ll be missing me too, so let’s get going.”

 

* * * * *

 

They stayed at New Hope for almost a week while Keladry discussed the new fort with Masters Kuriaju, Petrin, and Var’istaan, drawing in Vanget before he departed with promises of swift communication from his brother about the Vassa trade. Side-channels were also debated at length, and to everyone’s interested satisfaction Master Geraint swiftly fashioned two simple models to demonstrate what Var had pointed out about basins as a staircase or a series of single steps. Kuriaju promptly whittled a pair of river-barges to scale, and Taren was amused and impressed next morning to find that St’aara had appropriated both models for the schoolhouse. Keladry also approved, and spent an hour talking to assembled young, mortal and immortal, about why opening up the Vassa mattered. They were more interested in working the models than abstract notions of change, but it struck Taren forcefully that although most of the mortals were commoners of very ordinary station — children of soldiers, traders, small farmers, and the like — all now understood the working of a serious innovation. At weapons practice next morning he asked one of the samurai how long there had been side-channels on the River Yodo, and discovering they were at least fifty years old wondered why no-one else had brought the idea to Tortall. It was oddly like the way no-one before Keladry had thought to use basilisks architecturally, and a further aspect of the changes she was driving took shape in his mind when at lunch Mistress Heliana responded to his observation by sketching the diplomatic interests in New Hope.

“His Grace of Mindelan explained it to me when he was here over Midwinter, my lord. It seems all the ambassadors in Corus would have reported as a matter of course on Lady Kel beginning page training, her successes jousting during the Great Progress, and her knighthood, because of the interest in her, good and bad. But almost all of them _heard_ her ask the gods to strike down Torhelm, so they, well, acquired a personal respect, His Grace said, which became professional admiration with the Peace Treaty.” She dimpled. “He said he’s been dining out in Corus on tales of his youngest daughter for a while, and expects to be doing so for the rest of his life, but he also says what  _she_ wants saying, so word spreads about the Guild seminar, co-operation with immortals, and that we’re open to visitors. We’ve already had mages and immortals visiting from Galla, Tusaine, and Tyra, as well as Yaman and Carthak. Once the Copper Isles have settled down, we’re hoping a _kudarung_ might visit. And you’re exactly right about exchanging ideas, my lord. Lady Kel says half the problems in the world could be fixed if people would only talk to one another properly, and to immortals. And she’s right, for all we’d just think up new problems to replace them.”

“I dare say we would.” Taren shook his head. “I suppose I thought she had enough on her plate here without adding other people’s problems.”

“I know, my lord, but they bring answers as well as questions.”

That simple wisdom stayed with him, and he found himself seeing more clearly how diverse New Hope and its customs already were. He had noticed that the food reflected Scanran as well as Tortallan tastes, with Yamani pickles thrown in, but it turned out ogres were fond of several spicy Kmiri dishes Queen Thayet herself had taught the cooks, and that all visitors were asked to add a favourite recipe to the cooks’ knowledge. The festive clothing worn at Beltane had also been surprisingly varied, for women especially, with some in leggings and long tunics, others in wrapped dresses that imitated kimonos ; a grinning Irnai told him she had a gorgeous Kmiri outfit the Queen had given her, was getting some wonderful new dresses from Mrs Spinner, and enjoyed rivalling Lady Kel’s influence on fashion. Architecture could be added, with pilgrim facilities acquiring more colourful triple rooves, as well as the greenhouse, and there was a very interesting afternoon when Keladry dedicated the teahouse, sharing a first ceremony with Blessed Matsuo and the senior samurai while a crowd of liegers listened intently to her explanations of the ritual and the peace it promoted.

The necessary _kanji_ Blessed Matsuo had mentioned were on framed scrolls hung in three corners, and Keladry had chosen _jest_ , _tranquility_ , and _healthy child_. The first two Taren understood, thanks to Elimiaju, and when he asked about the third she told him it too was picked out in light in the Temple of Sakuyo where the first two fell on the High One’s painting, and had been the real point of his jest.

“You could think of it as a sort of gods’ prayer to the Timeway, Taren, if that helps. I shall be choosing other  _kanji for_  the teahouses on the Way, and having some fun, but here it had to be those three.”

He didn’t think that did help much, as the idea of gods praying was enough to give anyone a headache, but the Guild shop on the main level enjoyed some brisk sales of basilisk-ware tea-sets. Nor was the tea ceremony the only Yamani custom that was spreading, as he discovered when he saw Lord Tobeis and Irnai, with other children, playing a game called fan toss, and was left deeply startled by the revelation that the fans were also weapons. Tobeis explained their use by Yamani women, and happily agreed to order him one with the Stone Mountain sigil for Var, cautioning him without explanation not to ask Keladry about them. He also grumbled, as Domitan had, about being harassed by Mrs Spinner for clothes’ fittings but was, Taren thought, actually quite pleased.

What bad association a fan might have for Keladry Taren had no idea, but after their ride back from Little Rapids, during which Var had been by her for long stretches, she thought the reason nursing mattered so much was that it helped with the burden of deaths inflicted.

“I was telling her Mother once told me she wanted to feed us as babies herself, and hated Father for forbidding it as common, and she said it was wonderful and very soothing to do, and that giving life was the only possible balance for dealing death. Then she talked about the Lioness healing others to heal herself, but I think she meant herself too, and that Commander Svein was exactly right.”

An unexpected confirmation came from Sam, who had heard Captain Uinse reprimand a new recruit who hadn’t been through the siege for a bad joke about the killing-field, telling him blood always weighed, even when you grew used to the burden, and if Lady Kel ever heard him say such a thing he’d find himself on latrine duty for a month.

“He meant it too, Tar, and told me afterwards that she’d taken on the burden of the killing-field for everyone, almost as the Black God does, and most veterans know it and pray for her on that account as often as for themselves. He wouldn’t say more, but I’ve heard his men talk about the siege, and they were respectful of more than her deeds.”

Taren wasn’t going to argue, and saw how cheerful Keladry tended to be after nursing, as well as her invariable morning devotions at the shrines, even when it was raining and she trained indoors. There was also an unexpected funeral, a former refugee who’d passed his three score and ten and died peacefully in his sleep, that Keladry conducted at Haven ; and beyond the startlement of chimes, the eerie sound of wind that accompanied them, and stormwings’ massed attendance, Taren was struck by the utter certainty in Keladry’s voice as she prayed that the man find the Black God’s mercy infinite and his death in her service his grace. The unusual ritual, with spoken remembrances of the dead man, virtues and vices alike, was interesting and satisfying, and Taren thought he’d be talking to his new priest at Stone Mountain about trying something similar. Keladry also saw him staring at a black stone marker on the far side of Haven that declared **Here lies a Lord of Genlith who sold and slew his own and was buried without tears or plea for the Black God’s mercy** , and as they returned to the Citadel asked him quietly if he disapproved.

“Mithros, no. Not in any way, Keladry. I thought he’d burned with the other traitors.”

“He would have done, but Macayhill, who killed him, asked for a grave so he could make his peace. I allowed it, but without ceremony. He lies next to Rogal, but Rogal’s grave’s unmarked because he died repentant and could be forgiven. Genlith didn’t and couldn’t.” She had a wry look. “Actually, I forgave all the other traitors when I burned the pyre, denying only Maggur, because of Blayce, so you could say Genlith shares an unusual distinction, though I doubt he appreciates it.”

“No. I saw him often enough, but we never spoke at any length.”

“I never met him, though I did see him through a spyglass when they were building the trebuchet. And I confess I sometimes wish I could have seen his face as it burned, and find myself hoping that knowing The Girl destroyed both the weapons he made for Maggur  _really_ galls him, even in the Peaceful Realm.”

That it had been Keladry in person who twice thwarted Genlith was a familiar thought, and he nodded. “That I well understand.” He hesitated, and she cocked her head. “You forgave Vinson as well?”

“Yes.” She sighed. “I’m glad he’s dead, and Garvey and Quinden, but they were fellow pages and squires, and victims too, as Joren was. Nobody’s born with the kind of attitudes and beliefs they shared, and they learned those from the fathers children are supposed to respect.”

“They also saw better examples.”

“Did they?”

“You, for starters. And Lord Wyldon.”

“I suppose. But they hated me before they even met me, and I don’t think they ever understood Wyldon. Joren certainly didn’t, or he’d never have spoken as he did at his trial.”

“No.” Taren sighed himself. “It’s only that I can’t forgive Vinson myself. He came to Stone Mountain quite often, and liked hurting Var as much as Joren did.”

“Ah. Yes, that’s reason enough, Taren. But cursing the dead doesn’t help much. And it’s different when it’s someone you killed yourself.” The wryness returned. “Counting Joren, I’ve killed, buried, or burned six men who were pages when I was, and three were in my year. Of six. So I have some distinctions myself that I don’t much appreciate.”

It took Taren a moment to tally the other names. “I would say I imagine so, Keladry, save that I can’t. But I suspect the gods wanted it. And Sir Merric and Sir Seaver must be glad it was you who buried them, and cared for them in death.”

She glanced at him, eyes sharp. “Merric was. I don’t know about Seaver.”

“You  _do_ know about Sir Merric?”

“Yes.” She hesitated, then shrugged. “Merric’s spirit attended Rogal’s execution, forgiving him and guiding him to the Black God. But poor Seaver was just one of very many I buried that day, and while I know he was accepted I’ve never seen his spirit.”

“Would you wish to?”

“Not much. But he haunts me a little. He was loyal and brave, and could fight well enough, but Quinden aside he was the laziest in our year. If in death he knows about the last commander’s report I wrote on him he won’t like it much.”

“Oh. Perhaps he’s still lazy enough not to care.”

Her laugh surprised him.

“Perhaps. I doubt he’d get the joke, but I do. And the gods would. I still don’t know about Joren, but I think you’re probably right about them feeding me my other enemies, by the way. Dom agrees too. You can call it justice, as it was, and war, so Mithros must have been involved, but don’t forget to cross-file under divine irony, which always hurts in what the gods seem to think is a good way, and makes them laugh.”

All in all, Taren was quite glad when they took to the road again next day, heading for Dragonstown, and not only because he wanted to see Drachifethe. He was slowly becoming used to the powers that swirled around Keladry, and sometimes, looking at New Hope, felt the high purpose of what had happened there, good and bad, but the way she thought about gods was deeply unsettling. Saddling up, he watched her gently tell sparrows to stay with Domitan, and heard her brief explanation that their leader, Nari, was getting too old for scouting but didn’t like to admit it. It wasn’t just her attitude to gods, he thought, but to everything, gods and sparrows alike, with all that was in between.

Sam came too this time, wanting to see the bridge, and Var couldn’t have been kept away with both hands, so they rode together, marshalling ideas for Stone Mountain that had been piling up. Var had one he particularly liked, of using the abandoned quarry nearest the town, properly roofed, as a temple, with niche shrines all around, and he added it to the list of things to discuss with the new priest.

At Greenwoods Junction they turned east, and new landscapes held his attention through the afternoon. The Vassa stayed wide, fast, and chill, but its valley broadened as hills on the Tortallan side retreated, a line of bluffs began to rise on the Scanran bank, and the Road moved south away from the river. There was little settlement visible, but a fair amount of traffic in both directions, including pilgrims who pointed and bowed deeply when they saw Keladry, and they passed a small wayhouse with stables and fenced pasture that she said was for slower wagon trains hauling ashlar. With the sun westering a fort came into view on a ridge stretching south — ill-fated Giantkiller, sacked during the war, rebuilt, and now showing the grey of petrification but housing, Keladry said, only one army company. Where a winding access trail left the Road a low stone building was manned by a squad in maroon ; seeing Keladry their sergeant snapped to attention, and they paused briefly while she introduced Scanrans and ogres.

“Another inspection point?”

“Not really, Taren. Just a presence. Giantkiller was built to protect the Brown River Road, on the far side of the ridge, and this Road, but the men aren’t exactly overworked these days. And as I can’t use them in Scanra I have them patrolling to Greenwoods Junction, Riversedge, and Bearsford, so Brodhelm’s men don’t have to. The Roadpost is reassurance and can help travellers in need.”

A mile or two further on the Road rounded the end of the ridge and came to the Brown River Valley at North Bend. The river was on the far side, its road on the near, and at the crossroads the Great North Road merged with it, turning due north. Going straight on they would have taken what became the Northwatch Road, bending south towards Anak’s Eyrie ; turning north, they entered a stretch built at the same time as the bridge it led to, and the newness showed. Basilisks and ogres had been at work, and after a couple of miles they reached a low but quite steep hill with a long cutting easing the ascent considerably. As they emerged from it onto a raised section crossing a dell with a small stream to a second hill pierced by another cutting Var exclaimed, head turning from side to side, and Keladry grinned at her.

“You like it?”

“This is built of spoil from the cuttings?”

“Yes.”

“Then I like it very much, Keladry. It’s more cleverness.”

“The basilisks liked it too, fortunately. On the old trail the ashlar wagons had to be double-teamed for the whole stretch, which was delaying everything, so we took a day and sorted it out.”

“This was done in a _day_?”

“Pretty much. We had a deadline, so I called in everyone who wasn’t building bridge-piers, meaning nearly twenty basilisks and more than a hundred ogres. Numair and Harailt helped, and the rock’s quite soft, so we had square-cut ashlar being laid as fast as it could be carried. The only tricky bit was the foundation and bridging the stream, but as basilisks can petrify earth for several feet down without difficulty, and ogres love arches, even that wasn’t too hard, and the rest flew up.” She grinned. “It was a demonstration for doubters about the bridge, too. Jorvik and Ragnar came to watch, and left holding their heads, which amused the King, in a very Jonathan way.”

It was the first time Taren had heard her use the King’s bare name, and as they entered the second cutting he ventured a question. “Sir Alanna said His Majesty didn’t like feeling out-matched.”

Her smile was of the crooked kind. “That’s a very Alanna way of putting it, but not wrong. To be fair, he’s trying to rule a very large and complicated kingdom, and not doing badly, so having forces beyond his control acting for themselves is liable to be irritating.”

“You’re not beyond his control, though.”

“No, but immortals are. The treaties bind them not to harm mortals, and foster co-operation, but they’re neither his subjects nor mine. And he didn’t understand what the gods were about at all.” She shrugged. “Not that anyone else did either.”

“You didn’t?”

“No, but by then I’d mostly got over finding it annoying. We’d won, and the Treaty was signed. What mattered at that stage was the dragons’ agreement to help, which was beyond the gods’ control as much as the King’s. And there’s why it mattered.”

They emerged from the cutting to see the land sloping down towards the Vassa, and gathering dusk banished by a warm glow, many hues mingling. The impossible bridge spanned the river to the top of the bluffs on the Scanran side, and above it stretched the tremendous shapes of two dragons, one golden and the other the tawny copper of griffin feathers, with a great golden crest. It was from them that light shimmered, reflecting in the water strongly enough to colour the great piers that supported the wide bridgeway, and bathing the settlement that spread along both banks. Taren had expected a wonder, not such aching beauty, and Sam and Var were equally entranced, mouths open.

“The light is the gods’ blessings. The statues are dragonwork.”

As they came nearer, slowly descending, Taren began to make out the shape of the settlement, though it was hard to tear his eyes away from the glowing dragons. Given the lie of the land, the bridgeway started high on the Tortallan side, seventy or eighty yards from the Vassa bank, and a line of stone buildings occupied the same level, on both sides of a basilisk-paved street Those nearest the bridge were larger, and despite well-tended gardens flew Keladry’s flag and looked military ; others were varied, but clearly included shops, stables, and houses, and many more lined a score of cross-streets that sprouted back up the slope. Beyond them the lower slope was bare, save for some raised and very sturdy boathouses at the water’s edge, and Taren recalled what she had said about spring floods. On the Scanran bank a long row of stone buildings lined the bluffs on either side, windows beginning to light up, and Taren assumed there would be more behind. Dragonstown was much larger than he’d imagined, and he thought the permanent population must run to a thousand people at least — larger than many fiefs in its own right, however it was only one of New Hope’s towns.

Underpopulated as it might be, the sheer size of New Hope as a fief still meant it held very many people, and it had not escaped him that Keladry had clearly taken liege oaths not only from those at the Citadel, but (so far as he could tell) from every adult residing in her lands, save only soldiers merely posted there. The only other fief he knew of that did as much was haMinch : his father would have scorned the effort as beneath him, and the only historical examples he could think of involved rebellion against the crown, but he knew Keladry did so not to demand obedience but because she considered all her personal responsibility.

The point was underscored when they halted at the fortified building beside the start of the bridgeway proper, and she was warmly greeted not only by a swarthy officer and several soldiers in liveried maroon but by many civilians who swiftly assembled. Taren waited quietly with Sam and Var while Keladry spoke to them, noting that the officer was missing his left fourth and little fingers and that she seemed to know all the civilians by name, but mostly looking at the bridge and the astonishing detail of the statues, every scale outlined and lines of muscle beneath seeming to ripple in the glow. A large sign in Common named the bridge as Drachifethe, the Dragonwyrd, built by mortals, basilisks, and ogres with the aid of Lords Diamondflame and Jadewing, and Lady Wingstar ; named the adult dragons as Golden Eggs and Flamebreath ; and declared the only toll was to pray as you crossed for their peaceful rest, with their kits’. Beneath it a second sign stated that the first beings to cross Drachifethe, on the Ides of May 463 HE, had been all gods, manifesting to end the ancient feud of gods and dragons, and all gods having blessed the bridge, all gods were present here. Keladry came up beside them.

“Nothing more than the truth.”

“Indeed. And it encourages civil behaviour, I dare say.”

“There’s that, yes. Wide as we made it, it can get crowded, and carters have tempers. But meet Mikal of Holtwood, commanding here. Mikal, Lord Taren of Stone Mountain, with Lord Saman and Lady Varia.”

“My lords, my lady. Be welcome to Dragonstown, and Drachifethe.”

Hands were shaken, and Taren once again found himself subject to shrewd appraisal — not hostile but intent, and he wondered what stories of their presence at New Hope might have circulated. They seemed to pass inspection, and soldiers took saddlebags while grooms took horses.

“We’re staying here at the Bridgehouse, Taren. I have a permanent room, and there are guest-quarters, as well as barracks for my Scanrans and ogres, and your squad. But we’ll be eating at _The Smugglers’ Rest_ , on the Scanran side, and I’m heading straight there because I have clan business. Join me in an hour or so?”

She had told him of the former smugglers who were Clan Nihthelm, and he knew there was a case she had to rule on, so he nodded and she set off briskly across the bridge, accompanied by all her Guard save the ogres. He introduced Vesker to Captain Mikal, and saw his men settled, sensing their shock at Drachifethe and talking of his own amazement. Vesker was grateful, and as they left he found Captain Mikal approved.

“That was well done, my lord. New arrivals are often quite disturbed. Not that you ever get used to it, exactly.”

“No. I expected wonder but not such beauty. And I didn’t understand about the power it has at all.”

“That’s the gods’ blessings, my lord. They’ve never harmed anyone.” Mikal gave a predatory smile. “Though I have to say there is remarkably little trouble here, and they put everyone on best behaviour. Lady Kel’s sent me a miscreant or two from other companies, for a spell, and they mended their ways very rapidly. Do you need a guide?”

“I don’t think so, Captain. We can hardly get lost. Tell me, though, is there a temple, or shrines?”

“Certainly. On this side, three buildings west of the bridgeway, on the other, five east, next to _The Smugglers’ Rest_.”

“Thank you. Do the streets have names, by the way?”

He grinned. “Officially they’re Main Street, East and West, on this side, and Hǽlgelad, Éast and West, on the other. Unofficially, most people call them Lady Kel’s Way, North and South. She knows, but we try not to let her hear it as it earns a fisheye, and then some.”

That Taren could well believe, and he grinned back. “She does have strong feelings about names, doesn’t she? Though I might have too, if people were trying to name so many things after me.”

“Maybe so, my lord, but there’s no helping it here. She founded the town, as much as she did the Citadel, and everyone knows it.”

He collected Sam and Var from gazing at Drachifethe and they found the temple, a square building with niche shrines along three walls, to the same eight gods as at New Hope, Lord Weiryn and the Green Lady again paired. An eighth niche had no figure, but held a plaque dedicating it to all gods who had crossed Drachifethe. Taren knelt briefly at each, and before the Black God found himself recalling the sound he had heard at the funeral, the god’s own voice, and offering the prayer for Keladry that Sam said her soldiers offered. His mind also went to her need to cleanse Rathhausak, and what it might mean to have seen a friend’s spirit, as she had seen Sir Merric’s ; the High One offered no answers, but the candleflames seemed to stand taller for a moment, and he felt comforted, bowing thanks to the statue when he rose.

Outside the dusk had deepened, icelight columns set along the street brightening in the gloom, and Drachifethe looked more glorious than ever, its many colours mingling in the air and shading the wan Vassa with rich hues. They crossed slowly, Var’s intent examination of each pier and the bridgeway drawing smiles from others. Many residents seemed to come to the bridge at this time, younger couples with children, older ones and friends with linked arms, appreciating the wonder they lived with. There were pilgrims too, wide-eyed and reverent, and as they neared the centre and saw the statues of the five kits on the central pier Taren’s sense of the power present grew sharply. Keladry never spoke of whatever it was that had lain between gods and dragons, at least to him, but these were memorials, and seeing the size of the kits Taren knew they had died very young ; to pray for their peace was right, and as he did so he found his mind making connections — the ages of the dead kits, the children Keladry had rescued from Blayce, her words to King Maggur, that he died so children might live, the implacable justice she had visited on those who had sought to harm Lady Skysong, and _kankouji_ , a god’s prayer for healthy children. However each was distinct, all cohered, and for a moment understanding shimmered in his mind, of her sorrowing rage for dead children resonating with the dragons’ old grief, and a strange sense of an unpayable debt owed her by gods and dragons alike. But it was too great a thought to hold, and slid away into the fiery colours of stone, leaving a sharp desire to see the great ruby in this light and an unexpected sense of tranquility.

Nearing the Scanran side it was easy to pick out _The Smugglers’ Rest_ , where a roofed deck projecting from the bluff held a large table on one side and smaller ones already filling with diners and drinkers, but they were early and spent a while exploring the northern part of the town. It was deeper than the southern, stretching several hundred yards back from the river to line the Vassa Trail, and less linear, streets curling on uneven terrain. Close to the bridge a wooded gully led down to the Vassa bank — the reason the ferry crossing had been here to begin with, Taren realised — but they stuck to higher ground, seeing not only the services one would expect in a place of pilgrimage, hostelries, farriers, and the like, but a wide range of shops. Many bore signs identifying their owners as Protector’s Maids, further evidence of how well the scheme worked, but others had clearly seen opportunity here, and they passed a sleigh-maker’s yard by a large kennels where sleigh dogs were bred, several furriers, and a bookshop Taren wished was open. Nearer the bridge were premises clearly catering to pilgrims, and they examined displays with some bemusement, seeing small but quite well-carved models of the bridge, others of adult dragons painted black or a very dark blue, light green, and gold-and-grey, a bewildering array of gods, some familiar, others unknown, and any number of things bearing Keladry’s owl-and-crossed-glaives sigil, painted, embroidered, or stamped — tiles, mats, brooches, wall-hangings, rugs, clothing, handkerchieves, belt-knives and cutlery, plates, and even what they decided must be a bedspread.

Turning down Hǽlgelad East they stepped briefly into the temple, a mirror of its southern counterpart, and looked with amusement at the sign outside _The Smugglers’ Rest_ — a weathered and winking boatman sitting back in a chair with his feet up and a pint-pot in one hand — before going in. A large room with a long bar was cheerfully crowded, conversation flowing in Tortallan, Common, and Scanran, and they received curious looks as they made their way to the bar. Several young men were serving, drawing beer and mead, but an older woman keeping an eye on things came forward, speaking Common with a Scanran accent.

“Would you be the lords and lady of Stone Mountain?”

“We would, ma’am.”

“Lady Kel asked me to watch for you. The clan business is dragging on a little, but should be done soon. I can show you to your table outside or you’re welcome to wait here with a drink.”

They were happy to stay, and he and Sam accepted half-pints of beer while Var preferred a fruit twilsy. The woman, Kora Eriksdottir, said it was on Lady Kel’s tab, but Taren insisted on paying.

“It’s very kind of Lady Keladry, but I’d rather pay our way, ma’am. We’ve enjoyed a lot of her hospitality already.”

“I’ll not refuse good coin, my lord.” Kora grinned, eyes speculative. “We have Tortallan visitors enough, but not so many nobles. What brings you north?”

“Guild business, mostly, ma’am. I’ve also only just inherited, so I’m trying to learn my new job.”

Kora smiled. “Well, you’re doing right if you’re learning from Lady Kel, my lord.”

“Clan Nihthelm are happy with Clanchief Hléoburh, then?”

“Oh yes. So’s everyone, except slavers, and who cares about them?”

Taren knew Scanra still allowed slavery, or had under Maggur, but never having encountered it himself hadn’t thought about the problem that posed for Keladry, and they were all interested to hear Kora’s views. That Clan Hléoburh tolerated no slavery was unsurprising, but it seemed Keladry was actively involved in its suppression, and had made it clear to all that any slave brought into her lands would be freed, and any who escaped to claim sanctuary would be granted it. Some already had been, and however much their former owners might grumble, no-one was willing to risk her wrath, for which Scanrans clearly had a deeply wary respect, as well they might. The Council of Ten was being cautious, but several members had followed her lead, including Clan Somalkt, with smaller clans too, those enslaved as a punishment by Maggur had been freed, and the slave market in Hamrkeng had been closed.

“Where do the slaves come from?”

“The poor, mostly, my lady. They used to be taken in raids, too, but with Tortall and Yaman ruled out-of-bounds that’s dried up.”

There was a sudden silence in the room as four of Keladry’s Guard came through, surrounding a white-faced man, and took him out to the street ; in their wake a knot of Scanrans entered, one with an arm around a crying woman. Kora looked round as one approached.

“What happened, Lars?”

“Later, Kora. You can take the guests through.”

They swallowed curiosity and followed Kora out to the deck, where the view of the bridge and its light was wonderful, and Keladry with the rest of her Guards were assembling around the large table they had seen. Two others were present also, a wrinkled old woman introduced as Chief Gella, and her son Magnus. Keladry’s face was set, and she spoke with a slightly forced cheer.

“Magnus does most of the work, Taren, but he was too suspicious to tell me his name, so the landgrant was to Gella and she’s Clanchief Nihthelm. The Council of Ten hummed and hawed a bit, but they’d recognised me so they could hardly argue it was a man’s job.”

“As she is for ever reminding me, Lady Kel.”

Gella gave a wrinkled grin. “Only when I need to, son. I told you often enough she was chock-full of destiny.” She eyed Keladry before peering at them all with bird-bright eyes. “Still is. And you’ve some too, my lord, you and your siblings.”

“Truly?”

“Oh yes. Can’t tell you what, though. You’ll have to wait and see.”

That was less than satisfactory, but as food was served, a hearty soup followed by rabbit stew, conversation broadened, sliding between Scanran and Common. Much of it concerned increased river traffic, and Taren gathered that Magnus looked after boats needing to pass under the bridge, and through the new Union of Vassa Boatmen had oversight of everything on the river for miles in either direction. Given the dangers of the Vassa he could understand the need for safety and regulation, and was interested Keladry had considered a Vassa Guild, but decided against.

“A guild structure didn’t really suit, Taren. An extra vote in the Council of Guilds might have been useful, but I’d either have had to get Magnus to Corus or set up another office there with a deputy.”

“Thank the gods you saw sense, Lady Kel. What do Vassa boatmen want with Corus anyway?”

“You don’t wish to see Corus, Master Magnus?”

“Not in the least. It’s a den of thieves, by all accounts. The Vassa might be hard, but at least she’s honest.”

Taren thought that was rich from a former smuggler, and wondered at the man’s attitude, but Var had a different question for Keladry, about the carved dragons they’d seen for sale. She confirmed that they represented Lords Diamondflame and Jadewing, and Lady Wingstar.

“Do the carvers or sellers pay the dragons somehow, Keladry? I was thinking of what you said about not allowing immortals to be exploited.”

“They do, Varia, most faithfully.” A genuine smile spread on Keladry’s face. “When I first saw carvings of the bridge and living dragons for sale they were less than accurate, in shape and colour, so I spoke to Diamondflame, who doesn’t mind carvings but does mind sloppy work, and after we’d agreed on the tithe, which helps feed dragon apprentices, I got him to send Jadewing here for a day. Jadewing is one-hundred-and-twenty feet long, nose to rump, extremely strong, and rather sweet, once you get to know him, but he’s, well, not the sharpest dragon in the box, let’s say, and takes things rather literally. Diamondflame wanted exactness, so exactness he would get, in every detail. Since then the carvers have been inspired to be, um, a great deal more diligent, and Icefall checks on them from time to time. She’s Jadewing’s daughter, so for all her bounciness they take her very seriously.”

Var was grinning, and so were many people.

“I should hope they do, Keladry. Do the carvings sell well?”

“They seem to. Which is handy, as the apprentices eat a good deal, and presently want all the Yamani chillies I can lay my hands on.”

The severity of  _wanizame_ chillies took them to the end of the meal, several Guards confirming that they were not to be taken lightly, and with thanks to Gella and Magnus they headed back across the river. Keladry was still pensive, and they gave her some space, Taren quietly asking one of her Guards if there was anything he could say about whatever had happened. The man shrugged, but replied just as softly.

“All will know soon enough. A man of Clan Nihthelm was hurting his wife and children when he was drunk, which he was too often. Chief Gella ended their marriage, and warned him to stay away from the children, but the man foolishly would not accept it. Now he has lost his clan and his freedom as well as his wife and children.”

“She’s upset by having to sentence him?”

“In part, Lord Taren. She has given these who were clanless much, land, status, and protection, and she regrets his folly has seen him lose all. But the worst for her, I think, is that the woman accepted being hurt for so long, and even the children being hurt. She still defended him. Lady Kel was not happy with her, either.”

“Ah. Thank you. That makes sense.”

And in all too many ways. Neither his mother nor Aunt Lily had had any way out, and both had bent again and again to male bluster and rage, but they had not defended his father or uncle, nor Joren ; and he had still felt awful banishing his uncle. Sam and Var had been listening, and Var took his hand.

“Just count it as one more bully taken care of, Tar. Some more of the small protected. And let’s buy a set of dragons for Aunt Lily — she’s always liked carvings.” Var gave him a very demure look in which mischief bubbled. “Or what about sending our uncle that bedspread with Keladry’s sigil, against his lonely nights?”

Taren’s and Sam’s huffed laughter attracted Keladry’s attention, and when Var blandly explained the plan her laughter joined theirs.

 

* * * * *

 

Next morning they accompanied Keladry around Dragonstown to visit all the Protector’s Maids, though she spoke to many folk in passing. Taren purchased, among more things than he had quite intended, several sets of dragons and the bedspread, though on reflection he decided it was too fine a piece to be hurled onto his uncle’s fire, and wondered who might appreciate it. Mostly, though, he and Var listened and wondered, grateful for help from Sam with rapid Scanran.

The Protector’s Maids in Corus were all women from the Lower City who had skills but had lacked opportunity. Mrs Weaver had spread the scheme, and they had come from those she knew, contacts made as Keladry’s servant during her page years. But here the women were all widows or orphans, their husbands, brothers, and fathers the victims of war, and Taren slowly realised that the dead men had not been loyalists, nor coerced, but conscripted — farmers, trappers, draymen, and the like, forced to fight with little training and inadequate kit, and so disproportionately likely to be killed. Keladry’s conduct of the siege meant few such had died at New Hope, but other battles and skirmishes had slain them by the hundred.

And if those with new lives here were inevitably only a drop in the bucket, they were a larger drop than they might be, for in most cases two or three Maids ran a business together, and had jointly adopted as many orphans as they could house. Taren suspected there was presently a considerable net cost to Keladry, for rents were nominal, children received free schooling, and the tithe was low while they rebuilt their lives ; but paying it salved pride and in the longer run, as pilgrim numbers grew and the Vassa was opened, they would prosper and the debt would be more than repaid. It was a kind and generous scheme, yet would pay a profit and was already reaping a different dividend, for they knew their luck and to whom they owed it. The fierce personal loyalty to Keladry Svein had remarked was very evident, and from the Guards he gathered there were others of whom as much might be said, running wayhouses on her Scanran stretch of the Great North and Vassa Roads.

They were already late for lunch when Ebony squeaked that Mikal needed Keladry urgently. She took off at a run, guards and the three of them trailing in her wake, and by the time they reached the Bridgehouse it was a hive of activity, soldiers and ogres kitting up, and horses being saddled. Not knowing what would be necessary, Taren told Sam, Var, and Vesker to be ready to ride too, and followed his ears upstairs to a room where Keladry and Captain Mikal were speaking by spellmirror to a sergeant in liveried maroon. Seeing him she waved him in.

“Maybe, Pettir, but I don’t like the sound of this at all. Ask Cerus to tell Wuodan and Frige, and start following the trail. We’ll be there in force sometime tonight. Go.”

The mirror blanked, and Captain Mikal looked at Keladry with a raised eyebrow. “What’s ringing your alarm, Lady Kel?”

“Any number of things, Mikal. Illegal settlers Clan Beorhtscyld kicked out into my lands without telling me is bad enough, and Council business, but here’s a question. If this  _is banditry_  of some kind, did the bandits know these people were illegal, or did they think they were my liegers?”

“Why does … you think it could be bait?”

“What’s cast-iron guaranteed to bring me and mine running, Mikal? Especially _there._ And, if it weren’t for Cerus, thinking we only needed a proper search party?”

“Huh. Maybe. But who, and why?”

“We’ll be finding out. I hope I’m wrong, but better safe than sorry. Taren, can I use your men?”

“Yes, of course. They’re saddling up now.”

“Good. Thank you. Make it two of your squads, Mikal, and find out where the rest of Brodhelm’s are while I talk to Dom and Hamrkeng.”

Other spellmirrors were activated, and from ensuing conversations, eyeing the detailed map of the fief on one wall, Taren pieced the story together. A squad of Captain Brodhelm’s soldiers, patrolling the Smiskir Valley above Pakkai Junction, had been sought out by Cerus, of the Wild Hunt, with a distressed woman, one of a sizeable group of illegal settlers in the forested hills to the west. She was seeking help despite the risk of punishment because three girls had gone missing, and Cerus, coming across her, had gone to see, and said they had been taken by men who smelt of sweat, death, and malice. Keladry’s exchange with Mikal became clearer, for children abducted not so far from Castle Rathhausak would always ring New Hope’s bells, and unless the abductors had known the settlers had no right to be there, and counted on their remaining silent in self-protection, they must expect a reaction. Domitan didn’t like it either, nor Jorvik Hamrsson, also disturbed about Clan Beorhtscyld.

“Something is wrong there, Kel. I’ve not heard from Vannar Leofsson in months, and it is not like him to have done this. He might banish a family from the clan if he had reason, but three at once? And he would not send any who earned banishment into your lands without telling you.”

“Mmm. That’s what I thought, Jorvik. They’re closer to you than me, and your side of the Grimholds Spur. Can you get a mounted company down there as soon as may be? Give them the small mirror and I’ll let them know what we find on this side.”

“I will go myself, with Ragnar. And two companies, I think. Be careful, Kel. If the Beorhtscyldings are in this, there might be a hundred men or more. And there was a loyalist faction in that clan, not all of whom were at the siege. Who do you have available?”

“Besides the Chief’s Guard, forty ogres, and thirty, no forty soldiers, counting the squad that’s already there.”

“Fifty, Lady Kel. One of Brodhelm’s squads is riding from the lower Smiskir. All the others are at least three days away. So are my healers.”

“Thank you, Mikal. So seventy mortals in all, and forty ogres. What I don’t have is magepower, but I can call in Daine and Numair if I have to.”

“Be sure you do, Kel. You are needed. And the gods go with you. Farewell.”

The spellmirror blanked, and Keladry turned. “Mikal, two of your squads with packhorses to go find those settlers and bring them in. Kind but firm, at least until we know what happened.”

“On it, Lady Kel.”

“Taren, I won’t take Varia into possible combat. She doesn’t have the weapon skills. You and Saman are welcome to ride with us, if you want, but it will be hard going.”

“Can you lend us remounts?”

“Certainly.”

“Then I will come, at least. I’ll talk to Sam and Var.”

Var wasn’t happy to be left on her own, but understood and urged Sam to go while begging them both to take the utmost care. Taren in turn was less than happy about leaving her alone, but Vesker and his men were needed, and he was persuaded when Captain Mikal promised a soldier would escort Var about town, easing Sam’s conscience as well. In less than an hour they were mounted in borrowed half-armour and itchy helmets, clattering across Drachifethe, and even in her haste Keladry did not omit to slow for a moment passing the central pier, and salute the dragons. Taren murmured his own prayer, and settled to hard riding.

After clearing Dragonstown and the concerned crowds, they headed east for three miles, then swung north-east, following the Great North Road as it cut the angle towards the Smiskir Valley. The land rose and fell, forests covering low hills, vales rich with grass and early summer flowers, and they alternated between a steady trot and cantering, ogres matching horses with a loping run despite bearing packs as well as half-armour and weapons. Twice they had to manoeuvre past wagon-trains and surprised carters, but foot traffic moved aside swiftly. After a little over three hours, with the sun westering, they descended into a wide valley, and halted at Smiskir Corner, a familiar group of inn, stables, smithy, and fief office bracketing the junction with the Smiskir Road.

“We’ll rest for an hour, eat, and change horses.”

Taren and Sam were busy for half the time rubbing down their lathered horses, and shifting saddles to borrowed remounts. Scanrans and soldiers had assistance from stablehands, who also dealt with Keladry’s horse and saddle. They had been some way behind her on the Road, and Sam pointed out with worried interest how well armed she was, with not only her glaive in a holder, but a longbow and staff, two sealed quivers, and paired Yamani swords in addition to the one belted at her waist. Taren wondered why so much was needed, but the question was driven from his mind when food appeared, a medley of whatever the innkeep could ready in time — hot rolls, bacon and sausage, cold cuts, cheese, and large pans of fried vegetables for ogres. Having missed lunch they ate ravenously, and soon found themselves back in the saddle, dealing with unfamiliar mounts and gaits.

An hour later, with dusk drawing down, they caught up with the squad of Brodhelm’s men who’d been called in. All the Clanchief’s Guard and a scattering of other soldiers, as well as Keladry, had thin icelight staffs fixed to saddles, and with the basilisk-smooth surface of the Road they did not slow as darkness fell. The Smiskir was to their right, smaller than the Vassa but running fast and often showing white over rapids. To the left wooded hills slowly gained height, and as a gibbous moon rose crags began to catch its light. With back and legs aching ever more fiercely, ears ringing with the steady clatter of hooves, Taren’s sense of time drifted, but he thought it had been another two hours and some when they reached the wayhouse at Pakkai Junction, and amid more surprised enquiries from its keepers Keladry ordered another one-hour halt and switch of horses.

This time a stablehand helped him and Sam, and once saddles had been shifted they collected Vesker and his men, used privies, and entered the wayhouse, which bore a Protector’s Maids sign. There was no hot food, only bread and cheese, and wonderfully welcome tea to wash it down. The men were as tired as he was, but not unhappy to be doing, and spoke quietly to the liveried soldiers. They were on second mugs, and carefully stretching muscles already stiffening when Keladry came in, seizing a roll and a mug of her own.

“Are you both alright?”

“Un-huh.” Taren rotated his neck, and gave her a rueful look. “Just feeling the ride. How far have we come?”

“About sixty miles. Another fifteen or twenty to go.” She finished one roll and took another, looking introspective. “We’ve done well enough. Last time I travelled from here to the Vassa crossing it took four very long days, and I walked it so more of the littles could ride. I can’t say I ever expected to be back pursuing stolen children again.”

“It must grate.”

“Oh yes. Someone’s in mortal trouble.”

Her voice flattened for a moment, and Taren realised that beneath her driving purpose Keladry was deeply enraged. She must be feeling the ride too, but there was the same smooth control in her movements as when she pattern danced, and something that added a sharp sense of menace. Sam was aware of it too, as well as of soldiers listening, and spoke carefully.

“Could it be slavers rather than bandits, Keladry? Going for what they thought were your people as a kind of revenge?”

“It’s possible, Saman, but why would slavers take only three? And only children? They usually operate in large enough numbers that they’d have taken everyone. It could also be something left over from the war — loyalists who’d been bad enough they couldn’t go home and turned bandit, which might explain girls being seized. But I can’t shake the thought that this is bait. It makes no sense, I know, but still.”

“A divine warning?”

“Maybe.” Her voice was thoughtful. “Using the Staff of Knowledge had some lingering effects, and older immortals think I’ve become quite sensitive to the Timeway, so I don’t think it’s nothing. And I don’t much like any of the things it might be, people, so let’s get moving and find out.”

Remounting yet again was distinctly painful until muscles warmed, but it was a comfort to have his own horse back. The moon was high, and the day’s intermittent cloud had cleared, so they rode under a thickly star-spangled sky, the Great Band clearly visible. North of Pakkai Junction the Smiskir was a little smaller and with the land rising steadily gurgled and splashed over small falls as well as skittering through rapids ; other streams joined it from the western hills, the Road bridging them on elegant arches. He marvelled at the fighting ogres’ endurance : they could not change legs as mortals changed horses, but were unflagging, trotting and loping easily despite rolling sweat and widened nostrils. Night creatures stayed well clear of such a large party, but crossing a bridge he heard a heavy body crashing away upstream, and twice wolves howled in the distance.

Eventually they rounded a bend and Taren saw two campfires a few hundred yards ahead. Pulling up moments later with some relief he saw Keladry deep in conversation with several soldiers and a middle-aged woman haggard with exhausted worry. The site was clearly a regular bivouac, with a shelter, fenced pasture, covered haystack, and firepit, logs and kindling piled to one side. The soldiers who’d been waiting helped with horses, and he heard snatches of conversation about who knew what, or didn’t. Abruptly silver flared, bringing silence, and he blinked to see a hound leap from thin air to stand by Keladry as a familiar voice filled his head, and from their looks, everyone’s.

_Protector. You have travelled fast for mortals. Frige and Cerus follow the scent of those who took the children along a valley that curves back towards the Road before bending west again. If you continue for seven miles a track will take you over a saddle to join it._

“Thank you, Wuodan. Can horses make it over that saddle?”

_If you lead them._

“And how far beyond where we’d pick up the scent have Frige and the others already tracked it?”

_Some fifteen miles, leading west into the higher hills._

“Hag’s bones.” For a moment Keladry stood with eyes closed, then a command voice rose clearly audible to all. “We’ll take four hours. Make sure your horses are good and get your heads down. Pettir, you’ve been waiting, not riding, so your squad has the watch and care of the horses.”

_I will take care of the watch, Protector. Let them look to the horses and get what sleep they may. Then we can all push the hunt harder._

“Very well, and thank you again. You heard him. Heads down now.”

The pasture was soon as crowded as the shelter, and Taren and Sam, sandwiched between an ogre and a burly soldier, watched briefly as men from Pettir’s squad spread hay. The horses’ orderliness as they ate was striking, and Taren wondered if Wuodan was doing something, or if it was one of the effects of the Wildmage, until sleep claimed him hard. It seemed only a moment later that he was shaken awake, but the moon had set, and he rose, groaning, to pack up his bedroll and resaddle his horse by ice- and firelight. Two men detailed to stay with the woman had made thick, sweet tea and roasted something that might have been goat over the fire. Sam hacked off slices for them both, and Taren chewed gratefully, wondering how he could make it through the day ; every muscle was protesting, and how Keladry could look so sharp and sound so crisp he had no idea.

“Alright, everyone, listen up. We’ve seven miles on the Road, fast canter, then a trail over a ridge, leading the horses, then a track along a vale leading west. The ones we’re after are now at least thirty miles ahead from there, so we need to make all speed where we can. I’m not expecting any hostiles just yet, but assumptions get people killed, so keep your helmets on and stay alert. And as one possible reason for someone to think they could get away with this is having a mage, check your griffin-bands now. Anyone need a feather replacing?”

Mystified, Taren and Sam looked at the soldier next to them, and turned their borrowed helmets to look and feel inside. As his fingers traced uneven shapes beneath the lining, feeling the outline of feathers, the soldier reached out.

“Let me do it, my lord. That’s fine.” He felt Sam’s. “That too. Do your men have bands?”

“Not as far as I know.”

“Right.” He raised his voice. “Lady Kel, the lords’ helmets are good, but their squad don’t have bands.”

“No more they do. Good catch, Jens. Vesker, the bands protect from magical illusion, so be aware you and your men may see or hear something others don’t. Don’t hesitate to sing out. All well otherwise? Then let’s get moving.”

For the first few miles Taren was aware of a darker bulk looming to the west, and as his eyes adjusted he made out a cliff-face parallel to the Road. Then it retreated, and by the time Wuodan indicated they should leave the Road they faced only a wooded hillside. The path was a deer-trail, so single file was necessary, and Keladry had ogres lead remounts, roughly in the middle, with one of Captain Mikal’s squads bringing up the rear. Wuodan led, shining faintly in the darkness, and he and Sam were not far behind Keladry, among Scanrans. At first it was a relief to walk rather than ride, but as the hillside steepened he had to dig into reserves he didn’t know he had, determined not to show weakness or slow the column down. One part of his mind wondered if Keladry had put him and Sam where she had to elicit exactly that reaction ; another where the Scanrans could find energy both to climb and to wield axes swiftly and efficiently when branches obstructed the track. It was awkwardly narrow, with thick pine woods on both sides, but ran reasonably straight, climbing steadily.

When the ground began to flatten, he guessed the ridge was perhaps seven hundred feet high, and was thankful it was no more. Sam too, he thought, keeping half-an-eye on his brother as the trail wound along the ridgeline for almost a mile before angling over the saddle and starting to descend quite steeply. For a while Taren amused himself trying to decide if going down was worse than climbing up, or only just as bad, but the world soon narrowed to the fire in his thighs and lower back, the need to place his feet carefully, sometimes crosswise for grip, and the reins in his hand with his horse’s steady breathing. It was almost a shock when the descent shallowed and he came out of the trees into a valley bottom with a wide stream burbling south, and beside it a path that animals might have made, but where icelight showed the crescent pocks of shod hooves. Once all were out of the trees Keladry dismounted and walked along the file, checking all was well and ordering redistribution of remounts, and Taren forced his legs to carry him as far as Vesker and his men. They were as tired as he was, but with the horses sorted out their only real concern was the matter of griffin bands, and on her way back to the head of the file Keladry stopped, producing a small bag from her tunic and offering a handful of tawny copper feathers.

“I’m sorry I didn’t think to give you these before, Vesker. It’s best if three are sown inside the helmet lining, one over each ear and one over both eyes, but even one has virtue. Outside the lining they tend to itch, but you can put up with that or just have one in a pocket, and hold it over eyes or ear if you have to.”

“Thank you, my lady. They block illusion spells, you said?”

“They do, Vesker. Griffins will hear no lies, and illusion counts.”

Taren joined her to walk back up the file, thanking her — at which she waved a hand — and asked a question that struck him.

“If illusions are lies griffins can’t see, how could they accompany Quenuresh’s dragon?”

“They knew its route and could sense the magic.”

There was no time for more, and he swung himself back into the saddle, groaning as Keladry set a brisk trot, faster than on the Road to compensate for being unable to canter safely on a trail so narrow and untended. Though winding, the stream led consistently north-west, and there was little to occupy his mind except recalling what he could of the great illusion Quenuresh had spun, wondering how it had been planned and how a griffin could take station on magic doing something it couldn’t see. From Keladry’s ‘Note’ he knew the griffins’ had had to be persuaded to take part, and speculating if the irrepressible Junior had played a role he slid into a foolish fantasy of riding griffins, and a more coherent set of thoughts about obtaining griffin feathers and what other uses they might have.

False dawn revealed a wider valley than he had imagined, wooded slopes on either side rising quite steeply but the bottom a mile or more of copses and meadows through which the stream chattered, often broad and shallow over a pebbly bed, sometimes narrowing for a stretch into a deeper, better-defined channel. Deer fled their approach, looking back uneasily, and birds fell silent as they approached. When they passed through woodland the scent of resin mingled with smells of rhododendrons and wild roses, underpinned by water, and in the meadows the sharper tang of grass crushed underfoot joined the faint perfume of small flowers. And they were still gaining height, leaving behind lower hills fringing the Smiskir and Vassa Valleys and moving deeper into the mountains of the Grimholds Spur — lesser than those of the range proper, Taren knew from his study of Keladry’s maps, but mountains all the same. From the valley bottom nothing was visible beyond its skyline, but from those ridges the view north and east would be of peaks still snow-capped this early in the year, and beyond them higher peaks that always were.

About an hour after true dawn they came to a larger meadow and Keladry halted, ordering an hour’s rest, hot drinks but no cooking and make sure wood was dry, and for everyone to stay on the nearer side while she inspected where their quarry had camped on the further. Rubbing down his horse and shifting saddle yet again to the remount, Taren saw she had taken Wuodan, one of her Guards, a liveried soldier, and an ogre, guessing each might see something others missed. Sam agreed, and one of the Scanrans, looking to his own horses, confirmed it.

“All our training with Lady Kel is about co-operation. All have different strengths that can build together. Wulf, with her now, is our best tracker. And who knows what Wuodan can see?”

“And smell.”

“That too.” The Scanran grinned widely. “To hunt with such a hound, eh? Clan Hléoburh is a wonder indeed.”

He was Æschere, of Clan Fyrfeng, on Scanra’s southern coast, and having checked on Vesker and his men, busy stitching or pinning griffin feathers in helmets, they sat talking to him, over mugs of tea and chewy strips of dried meat, until Keladry and her party came back. Accepting a mug of tea herself with thanks, she called everyone into a loose circle.

“This is making less sense than ever. We’re following no more than a dozen horses, and Wuodan is certain the abducted girls are with them. So we have at most twelve men, maybe only nine or ten, who took three children from families forced out of Clan Beorhtscyld and over the Grimholds Spur into my lands, and who have ridden hard back to a lair the hounds have found. Wuodan?”

The news and Wuodan’s mindvoice had everyone sitting straighter.

_Frige and Cerus followed the scent all night, and have found much that is strange. The thieves’ lair is a shallow cave fortified with a log palisade, some twenty miles further into the Spur. From this valley a path up the southern ridge leads to a hanging valley, and the cave is on its eastern side. And on that path, almost a mile short of the cave, are warning-bloodspells, set by a mortal. They cannot detect us, but we cannot shield you. And while we may track stolen children for the Protector, there are laws about hunting mortals we must obey._

“Meaning the hounds may lead and scout for us, but away from the Road may not fight or kill except in self-defence. And the question is, what are we dealing with here? Anyone have any ideas?”

After a moment Æschere stirred. “Perhaps it is not just any children the thieves wanted, Lady Kel, but these specifically. Why were their families banished? And when?”

“I know only what the woman said, that they were abruptly told last November there was no food for them over the winter, forced out at swordpoint, and took the southern pass over the Spur in desperation. They built a cabin and survived the winter, just, by hunting and trapping. The girls were gathering early berries and mushrooms when they were seized. Cerus found their baskets.”

Taren thought it was Wulf who spoke.

“Has Clanchief Beorhtscyld run mad, to act so? If they lacked food enough, why not send them to Hamrkeng? All knew you had sent grain, Lady Kel, and more. Perhaps they were meant to die, and it has come to his ears they did not.”

“Jorvik Hamrsson thinks Vannar Leofsson may have been deposed as Clanchief. Certainly something is wrong. He and Ragnar Ragnarsson are riding to see what, in strength.” Keladry shrugged. “We’ll know when they do. Jorvik also warned me that Clan Beorhtscyld had some Maggur loyalists who were not at the siege. Anyone know anything about them?”

A few details came out, but nothing that seemed useful to Taren. The Clan had come under Maggur’s dominion early in his rise, and supplied many loyalists ; most had been among the besiegers, and many had died, some as _berserkir_. That had Keladry frowning.

“Was Clan Beorhtscyld strong in shamans, then?”

“They had one strong one, Lady Kel, but he died at New Hope.”

“No others, Guthlaf? Apprentices?”

“I cannot say.”

Nor could anyone else, and Keladry shook her head. “It’s possible, then. Right. Let’s wake some other people up.”

She first told Ebony to tell Scarlet to ask Queen Barzha to report to the Citadel with enough stormwings to fly two people in nets, then took a flat case from her tunic, opened it, and used a black opal to activate a spellmirror. The response was immediate, and someone received orders to summon Domitan, Master Numair (who would need a mug of very strong tea), and the Wildmage, as well as passing orders to others. Within a few moments she was speaking softly to Domitan, offering rapid explanations but also asking after Tobeis, their twins, and his own welfare. As she did so her face was softer, voice lighter, but as soon as Master Numair and his wife arrived the air of driving purpose she had shown since the summons to the Bridgehouse returned. Her summary was succinct, and the questions that followed disturbing.

“Numair, do shamans use their own blood for blood magic?”

 “Usually, Kel, but it’s possible to use others’ blood, and in some cases necessary. Love spells, say.”

“Is children’s blood ever necessary? Or girls’ blood?”

“Not to my knowledge, unless one was a specific target.”

“Are  _berserkir_ spells blood magic?”

“No. It’s not spells, just a trance state, sometimes drugged. The blood of totemic animals might be used, I suppose, but it would have no magical effect.”

“I saw  _berserkir_ at New Hope slash themselves with knives.”

“That’s for the pain, I believe. What are you thinking, Kel?”

“Only that girls might be taken and warning-spells set for more than one reason, Numair. Clan Beorhtscyld had plenty of men and at least one shaman close to Maggur. No-one knows of apprentices, but with bloodspells set that far away there has to be a strong shaman involved. He or she could have known Blayce, or Gissa and Tolon, or all of them, so whatever this is it could involve death- or blood-magic as bait to get me or my people here.”

“Gods! I hope not. And Blayce would not have shared spells willingly, Kel. No killing device I saw had any trace of magic other than his.”

“People must have seen him at work, though, Numair. And I have a bad feeling about this. I’m wondering about the Timeway, or a lingering effect of the Staff of Knowledge, and I think we’re going to find something worse than kidnapping, that must involve magic. I’m sorry to drag you from the seminar, but I need you and Daine to fly here. I’ve asked Barzha to come in, to fly two healers, for the girls as well as any casualties, so they could bring clothes for you. Jerkins, too. And come in high, please, following the valley north-west, until you see us — you’re both vulnerable flying low. I’ll ask Barzha if the stormwings can scout ahead, once they’re here.”

Some careful description of where they were followed, cut short by Ebony’s squeaked observation that Scarlet said Queen Barzha was on her way, and it knew the route they had taken. Then fires were doused, mugs stowed, and they returned to the saddle and the same fast trot. The worst thing about travelling single file, Taren decided, was the boredom of lacking conversation, but he was aware of tautening attitudes among soldiers and ogres alike, and tried to be more watchful, scanning right and left, remembering to look up as well as down, until his neck ached as much as his thighs and back.

As the morning wore on the sun rose high enough to clear the ridge now more than forty miles behind them, by Taren’s fuzzy reckoning, and its warmth was welcome. So were the richer hues it brought to the browns and greens of trees, dull yellows of gorse and furze, and foaming glitter of the stream. They were still well below the treeline, but he knew from the air they had climbed two or three thousand feet from Dragonstown, and the changing vegetation showed it. What the flowers were he had no idea, but they were not the same varieties he’d seen earlier, leaves and blooms far smaller ; grasses were coarser, and as soil thinned the bones of the mountains showed more often in outcroppings of rock. One sill was steep enough that Keladry slowed them to a walk while the horses climbed it, and the noise of the stream sheeting down to the pool it had eroded at the bottom stayed with them for a surprising distance after they had passed.

With tension gnawing at his stomach Taren thought time would drag, but before he expected it an open stretch of meadow gave sight of the hanging valley Wuodan had spoken of only a mile ahead. A waterfall tumbled down a scarp of fifty or sixty feet, but on the near side an old rockfall, covered in scrub and gorse, showed the way up, and as they came nearer he could see the winding line of a path. Where it forked off another hound was waiting, and after listening for a moment Keladry signalled them to dismount and picket horses. However coarse, the meadow grass was lush, benefitting from the waterfall, and the horses seemed happy with it. Once they were done, they gathered around Keladry and the hounds.

“Much as I hate it, we have to wait for Numair and Daine, so we’ll use the time. Taren, Saman, beside me, shortest mortals complete the circle, others around by height.”

It wasn’t until Ebony slipped from Keladry’s collar to flatten itself into a rough oval almost a foot long that Taren understood ; taller men could see over shorter, and the ogres over everyone.

“Frige?”

The mindvoice was not unlike Wuodan’s, but somehow female, and as it described the thieves’ lair darking images appeared. The hanging valley was well sheltered, quite thickly wooded with stands of white pine, and the trail hugged the eastern cliffs, rising and falling a little. It was atop the steepest rise, over a rock spur covered in gorse, that Frige said warning spells were set. Keladry nodded.

“Drier ground. Could you tell how old the spells were?”

_Not with certainty, Protector, but after the thaw. If they had been there during the winter I could tell._

“Spring. Huh. Go on.”

Beyond the spur the path dropped again, ran level for a few hundred yards, and bent round a buttress. In the cliff beyond was a strange step, as if a whole section had slipped forward, with a ragged gully eroded in the angle, and at its foot a crudely hewn palisade of pine logs bound with rope and braced with piled stone made a rough square. There was a gate in the north-western side, a man’s head visible by it, with another on the north-eastern wall. Ragged stumps showed where pines had been felled from a dense stand that pressed towards the cliff.

“How tall is the palisade, Frige?”

_Fifteen feet. I had a look before dawn from the western cliffs, and there is a cave at the base of the rock, little more than an overhang but shelter. There was a watch of two men, as you see, but they did not move sideways at all, so I doubt there is an alure. With dawn I counted five who woke, and the watch was changed, but the rest stayed asleep out of sight. I could not count them, but there are twenty-three horses in a meadow beyond the trees, a half-mile further up-valley. The shaman who set the spells is there, and the children we followed. Others who have been taken too, perhaps, but it is hard to tell for the reek of blood and guilt that is not felt. Cerus watches and will tell us if any emerge._

“ _Not_ felt? Probably loyalists, then. Empty men. Thank you, Frige. Is there anything else you can tell us?”

_Not that is of use, Protector, but I do not like the feel of the magic at all. It is tainted with more than blood._

“I bet it is.” Keladry’s voice was flat, and she fell silent for several minutes, thinking hard. “Alright. There are too many unknowns, and we’ll need whatever Daine and Numair can tell us, but our first purpose is rescue. That means asking Numair to blast the palisade isn’t on. Veliriju, can you jump to grab the top of it and get over?”

“Certainly, Protector.”

“Then detail five to do so, and get that gate open. Pull down a length of palisade if you can, to widen access. Ten others to grab all children and any adults who are obviously captive, and get them out, ten more to protect those ten. The other fifteen and all soldiers to fight all armed adults. Kill as you need, but I want some alive to answer questions, so just knock out anyone unarmed.”

“And the shaman, Lady Kel?”

“I don’t know yet, Veliriju, but I might be able to get a shot with the godbow from one of those pines. In any case he’ll be my primary target with a special arrow. Guards, five with me as defence until I can get a shot, others with all squads to the fight.”

“What about Sam and me, Keladry?”

“I can’t say, Taren. Space will be tight, and a confined mêlée is not a good first combat. For now, with me. Get prepared everyone. Eat if you want, but no fires, and keep the noise down.”

Ebony returned to Keladry’s collar, and all did as they were bidden, honing swords, daggers, and axes, adjusting and rebuckling armour, chewing dried meat or fruits and drinking from water-bottles. Taren and Sam also watched Keladry, and realised Wuodan and Frige were doing so too, heads cocked with interest as she honed her glaive, then took bow and sealed quivers from her saddle, and without stringing it sat cross-legged with it across her lap, hands resting on it, for several minutes. She opened the quivers to consider their contents, and Taren saw fletchings in the rich hues of griffin feathers, while others glinted steel. A pocket on one quiver yielded a curiously carved wooden peg that she clipped to the middle of the bow, where it projected as an unusually long and to Taren’s eye slightly low arrow-rest. Finally, she set bow and quivers aside, and rose to perform a pattern dance that began with slow extended sweeps and accelerated to a mid-tempo. When she stopped her face was lightly sheened with sweat, and after she’d mopped it with a handkerchief Taren offered her his water-bottle.

“Thank you.” She sat and drank sparingly. “No point working out too much when I’ll need the energy, but there’s nothing like pattern dancing for getting muscles loose.”

“So I’ve seen. Why the separate arrow-rest?”

“Lord Weiryn’s bows don’t have rests, and they aren’t necessary with ordinary or griffin fletching, or even stormwing fletching if only the cock-vane’s steel. But I have some arrows fletched with stormwing down, which are in theory very useful as they’ll cleave through an obstacle to their target, just as the hatchlings cut themselves free from their steel shells. The trouble is the down is curly, so they rotate, and down will cut  _anything_ to the bone and beyond. I gave Lord Weiryn the first one I made, from Amourta’s down, as a curiosity, really, and when Dom and I ate with him in the Divine Realms we talked about their virtue and problems, and he made me the arrow-rest. The wood’s flexible so you can snap it on and off easily, but it stays exactly where you put it. And the arrow sits on thin air two inches above it, so even a down arrow won’t damage it. Gods are fair useful sometimes, as Daine would say.”

Taren hoped he’d kept the astonishment off his face better than Sam, but what could one say to such a tale, with such a conclusion?  _Useful_ was not a word he had ever associated with the divine, any more than _magical arrow-rest_ , and if he knew from the tale of Rogal about immortal fletchings with strange virtues, they hadn’t included stormwing down cleaving through obstacles — which must mean more than armour.

“Are they mage-killers, like arrows with adult-stormwing fletching?”

“So Lord Weiryn thought, Saman, because any magic ought to be just another obstacle, and Barzha agreed, but as no-one’s ever tried one I can only hope so. And here we go.”

They rose with her, and Taren saw a strange procession flying towards them. Stormwings by fours carried two nets in which men lay, while others, including younglings, were more loosely grouped above, and ahead of them were two large hawks. As they neared soldiers and ogres shifted to open a space, and Keladry held out both arms for the hawks to glide down and perch. One had subtly wrong proportions, but Taren’s attention went to the net-carriers, slowing to a hover before carefully descending until the nets touched ground and were let drop, the men they carried scrambling up and lifting packs and a tied sack while all the stormwings spiralled down to land with awkward hopping steps. One of the men jogged over with the sack.

“Clothes and jerkins, Lady Kel.”

“Thank you, Morri. Alright, everyone, give Daine and Numair your backs so … hang on.”

Taren’s stomach lurched as the properly proportioned hawk’s head distorted into Daine’s.

“Kel, Frige relayed her report. Do you want me to go see what’s inside that palisade?”

“Please, Daine. Ebony, show that last view again, if you would.”

The darking leapt to the ground, flattening itself as Keladry carefully squatted and Daine and the misproportioned hawk peered intently.

“Can you also see if any of those pines nearest the palisade has a branch high and sturdy enough that I could take a shot from it? I have your Da’s bow and a couple of down arrows. And I’d like to get everyone as close as those trees without them seeing us, if possible.”

“Surely, Kel. Good thinking. Odd’s bobs, but it’s like a little New Hope replay, isn’t it? Built in the angle, and you having to shoot from on high.”

“Tell me. Be careful, Daine. And quick as you can, please. Frige doesn’t like the smell of the magic one bit, and I still have a bad feeling.”

“I will be, Kel. Raven-form, I think. Plenty of those up here already.”

Human head and hawk body both distorted, amid a shimmer of magic, shrinking to a large and glossy raven that took off, climbing with a flurry of wingbeats.

“Stay flattened, please, Ebony, so the stormwings can have a look. Give Numair your backs, everyone.”

As the misproportioned hawk turned on Keladry’s arm and hopped off, Taren turned, seeing all do so. The practical problems of shapeshifting had never occurred to him, nor had he known that Master Numair could take hawk-form as well as his wife, though he had read that Carthakis had stronger modesty codes than Tortallans. The mage’s voice came from behind Keladry with the sounds of clothing being drawn on.

“Thanks, Kel. I didn’t hear Frige’s report but even from here I don’t like the feel of the magic either. It’s vile, but nothing I recognise.”

“Mmm. Magic aside, this might be more straightforward than I thought, Numair. There are only twenty-three horses, and no room for many more men that that, so we outnumber them heavily. Frige said they bear but don’t feel guilt, so loyalists, probably, meaning hard men, but they’ll go down. And if I can get the shaman, all you need to do is cloak us approaching, and contain any spells he’s set.”

“That all makes sense. Right. I’m decent.”

“Make way so the stormwings can come to see Ebony, everyone.”

Master Numair was fastening a leather jerkin over a short jacket, and as soon as he was done squatted to peer at Ebony.

“Easier for the stormwings if you can lift Ebony, Numair.”

“What? Oh, of course.” The mage stood, frowning. “Ebony, you’re too light for me to lift safely with magic, but if you can stand a little cold …”

A line of sparkling black magic extended from the mage’s hand to the stream, and scooped up a ball of water that floated towards him, shaping itself into a square column about six feet long. It settled just behind Ebony, and at a muttered word from Master Numair froze. Taren felt a wash of heat, then a chill. The mage stooped to grip Ebony by its edges, and lifted it to settle against the top of one side of the ice-column.

“There.”

“Thank you, Longshanks. Another useful answer.”

The stormwings had gathered while Taren was distracted by the magic, and the speaker was Queen Barzha. He hastily offered her a bow, and he and Sam stood back as Master Numair grinned.

“You’re welcome, Your Majesty.”

“And due our thanks.” Keladry too gave a short bow. “I’m sorry to have had to ask you to fetch and carry, but Mikal’s travelling healers were called to a house fire beyond the Smiskir Confluence and I couldn’t leave Dragonstown without any.”

“It is not a problem, Protector, when children are in danger. And the Godborn is right about echoes.”

“Oh yes. The Timeway?”

“Maybe, but gods are in this somewhere. And it smells of death.”

“I’ll bet. And yes, they are, but that has to wait. I was going to ask you to scout, but Daine’s doing it, you’d be seen, and I want to take them unawares if we can. But you’re welcome to feed, of course, and please don’t cackle but I’ve no objection to kidnappers as hoick’ems, if any of you feel so inclined.”

There were no cackles, but Barzha’s eyes glittered, and several stormwings bated, steel teeth exposed as they grinned widely.

“We’ll see, Protector. If they are like those who came to New Hope, someone should kill them. Are you really going to try a down arrow?”

“Maybe. If the shaman’s in the open and unarmoured a griffin-and-stormwing one will do, but for armour or any obstacle, yes.”

“Such interesting lives we lead, these days.”

“It’s any interesting deaths I can do without.”

Keladry ran swiftly through the plan of attack, everyone listening intently, and Taren found wonder at stormwings’ and hounds’ deference tempered by appreciation of the way it had already been refined. Master Numair’s cloaking would get them within twenty or thirty yards unseen, and two soldiers from different squads, the best archers present, were to take out the sentries when they heard the Godbow sing. Healers were to follow her, and stormwings had been added in, too.

“If you were to fly round to the top of the western cliffs, _unseen_ , please, you’d see it start and could glide straight down. Focused terror might be useful, but watch for the stolen children and any other hostages — they can do without more suffering.”

“Surely, Protector. We can feed, and it is a good angle for hoick’ems.”

“Your call, but I want some alive to interrogate.”

“Of course.”

Soldiers and ogres were nodding with thoughtful expressions, but the Guardsmen mirrored his own astonishment. Taren sensed more clearly than before the journey they had undertaken in coming to New Hope to serve Keladry, and what it might mean, having known her as an overwhelmingly victorious enemy, to find themselves serving under her in combat that deployed immortals as allies, without even blinking. Just as Æschere had said, strengths were seamlessly combined, and none were asked to do what they could not do well and swiftly. Tortallans who’d known victory under her command were grimly confident ; stormwings had seen it ; and all knew of it. Lord Imrah’s words about those who served her wanting to give of their best came back to him, blazing their truth, and he felt it himself, though he did not know if he hoped to fight, perhaps to kill, or to be spared the experience.

_What would you have us do, Protector?_

“Would leading us off the path and round to those trees, unseen, be allowed, Wuodan?”

_Certainly._

“Then please do. And once the fight’s over … well, it’ll depend, but if there are rescued children, comfort them as you can?”

The hounds looked at one another.

_Comforting is not our strength, Protector._

“Oh I don’t know, Frige. Having a divine being tell you you’re safe can’t hurt. And Cerus likes having his belly scratched.”

 _There is that._ Wuodan’s mindvoice was very dry. _Anything else?_

“Not practically, yet. Can you tell me if any gods are watching?”

_Many, by now, I should think. Weiryn and Sarra certainly are._

“I dare say, but this …”

Keladry broke off as the raven returned in evident haste, its head deforming into Daine’s as it perched on her forearm.

“Nineteen men, including the shaman, and six girls. One’s just being stripped, and the shaman’s up to something.” Keladry muttered an obscenity, the first Taren had ever heard from her. “There’s a tree that’ll give you the shot, opposite the middle of the palisade, and I can’t see why you couldn’t get there unseen through the woods.”

“Wuodan says he can guide us, Daine. Go back, observe, and try to stop any killing before we can get there?”

“Will do.”

The raven took off again, and Keladry snapped orders, reducing the ogres who were to grab girls to six, the others joining the fight. Stormwings lumbered aloft, heading up valley to circle round, and in very short order they were climbing the rockfall after Wuodan and Frige, in single file at a jog. Taren and Sam were behind Keladry, in the van, with Master Numair behind them, and as they entered the hanging valley Taren felt as much as saw his magic envelop them.

“We’re cloaked from anyone but the shaman, Kel, and he’d have to be looking hard.”

“Good. Thanks, Numair.”

She didn’t turn or slow at all as she replied, only accelerated on the flat, and for some reason that more than anything brought the reality of it all crashing in to Taren. It wasn’t a full day since Ebony had squeaked Captain Mikal’s summons, and for all his aches the endless ride had been almost dreamlike ; even the darking’s images had a fantasticality that distanced them. But now he was running towards combat, hand on swordhilt to stop it tangling his legs, sweat beginning to bloom on face and body, heart hammering and gut clenching. The girl being stripped — to rape? to kill? — would be no older than Var, probably younger, and he knew exactly why Keladry ran, and he ran with her, at once enraged and terrified.

Well before they came to the rockfall with warning-spells Wuodan and Frige took them off the path, between two stands of pine and onto a faint deertrack that skirted a third. They had to slow a little but still ran, and a few moments later a third hound slipped from the trees to join them. Crossing a small meadow bordering the tributary stream they hugged the eastern eaves, then left the deertrack to weave between boles, footfalls cushioned by a thick blanket of fallen needles as well as magic. A shallow gully was no obstacle, nor the bare trunk of a fallen pine. Taren had lost all sense of direction but the hounds never faltered, and soon drew up in woodland dense enough to be gloomy though more light filtered down only a little way ahead.

_Walk straight forward, Protector, and you will leave the trees opposite the midpoint of the north-western palisade._

“Excellent. Thank you, Wuodan. Deploy, everyone, and go hard when I fire. Gods be with you all.”

Taren barely had time to notice Master Numair’s magic effortlessly adjusting shape, clinging to all as they spread out, ghosting forward towards the light, before Keladry stopped again, peering up at a tall pine, setting down one quiver and adjusting the other on her shoulder before setting the bow against her foot and stringing it. Her five remaining guards formed a semicircle around them. She was about to put it over the other shoulder when Master Numair spoke.

“I can lift you, Kel.”

“Good. I’m still going to …” Her gaze raked him and Sam. “Can you lift Saman too?”

“Yes.” Abruptly, a globe of black magic the size of a marble floated by Master Numair’s ear, another by Keladry’s mouth. “Speaking-spell.”

“Right. Saman, I’m going to have to step out on a branch to fire, so I won’t be able to take a proper stance and won’t have either hand free. Stand behind me, jam your dagger in the bole, hang on tight with one hand, and hold my belt with the other?”

Sam nodded, white-faced, and magic flooded from Master Numair, lifting him and Keladry swiftly up the line of the bole. The mage was peering upwards, and from the ball of magic by his ear Taren and the two healers could hear Keladry’s directions, left, right, as they avoided boughs, and then forward, up and left a little, down, alright. After a few seconds there was a muttered curse that made Master Numair and both healers grimace, a swift order to Sam to hold tight, and after a few more an astonishing golden note that could only be the Godbow’s song. The ordinary twang of other bowstrings followed immediately as an inhuman scream tore at the air, and the soldiers and ogres were gone, sprinting forward out of sight, with hounds following.

“Down, please, Numair.”

The mage complied, again responding to directions and ignoring the muffled sounds of timber splintering, men and ogres shouting, steel clashing, and the beat of heavy wings until Keladry and a shaking Sam had their feet on the ground again. The balls of magic vanished, and Taren embraced his brother.

“Alright, Sam?”

“Y-yes. He was … he …”

“He was about to sacrifice a girl.” Keladry’s voice was dead level, going through Taren like a lazy wind, and her face was white with rage as she picked up the second quiver. “Attempting death magic, I think. Shakes afterwards, Saman, when it doesn’t matter. Come on.”

Taren pulled Sam after him, following Keladry and Master Numair forward with guards flanking them, and blinked as he came into sunlight. The gate in the palisade hung drunkenly from one hinge, and a section of fifteen or twenty feet had been thrown down ; stormwings perched along what remained, intent on what was within. From the corner of his eye Taren saw the Daine-raven glide to land on Master Numair’s shoulder and receive his caress, but his eyes were torn away for just inside the gate were the first casualties of combat he had ever seen, the man who had been on watch there lying with an arrow through his eye, arms flung wide, and two who must have come to his aid, blood and brains leaking from heads crushed by sledgehammers. The six ogres detailed to grab the children were beyond them, each holding a girl very gently, crooning ; one was naked, glassy-eyed in shock and shivering violently, the ogre rocking her looking at once furious and helplessly sad.

“Morri, Toric, do what you can.”

The healers moved in, and as Taren edged past the group of ogres the view opened up. Half-a-dozen bodies lay scattered, all thieves, and on the far side, by the shallow cave, the mass of soldiers, Guards, and ogres surrounded eight huddled prisoners, some moaning in pain, two unconscious, others blank-faced with shock. All were staring at the inner angle, where the three hounds faced something, growling with hackles raised and ears flat. Keladry and Master Numair headed straight over, Keladry nocking a second arrow with swift ease as black fire gathered around the mage’s hands.

“All gods! What  _is_ that?”

_Nothing we have ever seen before, Protector, but there are souls and magic and Chaos._

Seeing for himself, Taren felt bile rise and swallowed hard. Two bodies, both face-down, were impaled by a single arrow, a man in rough tunic and leggings over a robed figure, and he realised Keladry had shot the shaman through a soldier standing behind him. A bone knife worked with runes lay beyond them, white against dark rock. But the real horror was beneath both bodies, a giant, roughly human shape of clay and earth that reeked of blood and shimmered with ugly brown magic streaked with dark red. It was moving, torso and legs juddering and the fingers flexing, clawing at the ground. Master Numair, looking as sick as Taren felt, carefully extended magic towards the thing for a moment, not letting any touch it, then knelt, peering.

“I’m only guessing, Kel, but you were right about death magic. And blood magic. His rite must have been nearly complete, and the arrow went right through them both and is sticking into that thing, so I think it’s caught both their souls.”

“How many souls, Wuodan?”

_At least three, Protector. Maybe four. The shaman was Chaos-tainted, and that has joined them in there._

“Four? Then there are innocents in there, too.” Keladry slipped the arrow she had nocked back into the quiver on her back, and sank to her knees, arms wide, though her right hand still held the Godbow, and head tilted up to the sky. “High One, Lord of the Peaceful Realm, by the face you do not show I beg your help now. Claim these souls, innocent and guilty, for your judges, and cleanse this place of Chaos. We came with all speed, but this we cannot do. Hear my prayer.”

For a moment there was an utter silence, burning in Taren’s ears, and wind soughed through it, speaking words that rang in his head.

_Heard and granted, daughter. The children will have my special care. Cup your hands, and pour._

Keladry rose smoothly, slinging the bow over her shoulder to cup her hands, and Taren saw tears on her cheeks as glittering silver filled their bowl. Carefully she moved forwards, Wuodan stepping aside, to lean over the writhing figure and the bodies impaled on it, letting the silver fall on all, more and more of it, spreading out to coat the figure from head to toe, stilling fingers as it reached them. When her hands were empty Keladry stepped back, and the glittering silver darkened before flaring brightly, making Taren blink as his eyes watered and vision swam. When he could see again there was only a still clay figure and two flaccid bodies, but the arrow that had transfixed them was in Keladry’s hand, unbroken and clean of blood. She stared down at it for a moment before murmuring a prayer of thanks, swinging a quiver off one shoulder, and carefully putting the arrow away. Master Numair, his face grey, reached a hand to her shoulder.

“Thank you, Kel, most sincerely. And from Daine. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen anything worse.”

Her voice remained as flat as slate. “Thank the Black God, Numair. And pray for Dabeyoun to eat that shaman’s soul. Blayce without Genlith’s metal, and Chaos-touched as well.” Her voice rose into the sky, edged with rage. “Lord Mithros, I know you have much to do but surely nothing can be more urgent. Clear these Chaos remnants. Please. Uusoae remains in her cage and cannot interfere. _Deal with it!_ ”

The  _please_ felt forced, but Keladry stared at the sky, cheeks still wet, and another noise came, the ringing clash of arms, a distant fury of battle echoing from the cliffs and dying away. Silence returned, broken only by ragged breathing Taren slowly realised was his own.

 _You have our thanks also, Protector. This was a great wrong._ Wuodan’s mindvoice became somehow sly. _And I cannot remember when Mithros last acknowledged such a commanding rebuke from a mortal._

“Will he do it, though?”

All three hounds shrugged, and Wuodan cocked his head a little.

_Probably. The Black God will surely have things to say to him._

“Yes, that. Cerus, were you guided to that woman?”

A third mindvoice replied, and Taren thought of a baritone, where Wuodan was a bass.

_I cannot affirm it, Protector, but it may be so. I travelled that way on a whim, and her desperation caught my curiosity. You think the Black God wanted you here?_

“I do, Cerus. That accursed shaman didn’t want  _me here_ , only new victims, but someone did. Go figure. Numair, please search these bodies and destroy that … thing. And the knife. We need to find the victims.”

Keladry turned, stalking across towards the prisoners, those who were conscious white and staring, while the soldiers bowed deeply to her, Guards with hands over hearts, and ogres raised hammers in salute. Taren and Sam followed, minds churning. He had just worked out that she meant the bodies the third and perhaps fourth souls had inhabited when she reached down to haul a shivering prisoner to his feet. Her voice was a blade.

“How many girls were sacrificed into that thing?”

“T-t-two. Spare me.”

“No. Where did you bury them?”

“Meadow. Beside the path.”

An arm gestured vaguely, and she dropped the man.

“Ebony, report to Button. Someone take that poor girl her clothes. Guards and Stone Mountain squad, gather the saddles and tack, and go get their horses. Take them straight down to the main valley. One of each squad and kind with me as witnesses. Everyone else, search this place and the bodies. Prisoners too. Papers, valuables, food, anything that tells us about them. And let’s have the rest of that palisade down.”

Keladry swung, heading for the gate, and Taren and Sam followed. She stopped by the healers and ogres with the rescued girls, the one who had been naked just having a shabby dress settled over her head.

“Find out if there’s anything here they want, and take them down to the main valley. And hear me, all you girls. That shaman is very dead, and the Black God’s judges will not be kind to him. The god has the souls of the sacrificed safely, and will care for them. Can any of you tell me their names? Who was killed here? I go to bless their graves.”

Even though it was still flat with rage, care and kindness were in her voice too, and though all the girls were shocked and shivering a quavering voice answered.

“Renna was first, Braka second. You saved Vorinna today. I would have been next. We will come with you.”

Keladry stared, then nodded. “Right. And you are?”

“Fréawaru.”

“Well-named, then. Ogres, carry Fréawaru and her friends, please.”

By the gate she stopped again, looking up at Queen Barzha. “You can have the bodies if you want them.”

“We are well fed, Protector, and they are too tainted even for us. Let the ravens feed, or burn them. We too will come to honour the graves.”

Keladry simply nodded, and marched on, Taren, Sam, and ogres carrying girls in her wake, with the witnesses she wanted, while the stormwings took off to circle overhead. She took the path south-west, heading up the hanging valley, which after some curves began to descend and brought them into a meadow where nervous horses were gathered on the far side, by the tributary stream. Keladry stared for a moment.

“Lord Arawn, if you hear me, might you calm them so my men can saddle and lead them? I will see they are properly looked after.”

She didn’t wait for any reply but followed the faint path, worn by human feet, across the meadow for fifty yards, halting where the ground showed raw earth heaped in two small mounds. The stormwings glided to their awkward landings, gathering round the graves, and Keladry removed bow and quivers from her shoulders, setting both behind her, before gesturing the ogres to come forward. Taren and Sam edged back, and Keladry raised her arms, as she had before.

“High One, I cannot say Renna and Braka died in my service, and you have promised their souls your special care. Yet I would not leave their bodies unshriven and unmarked, and these who knew them bear all sorrow for them. I pray Mother Universe and Father Flame may share and ease your burden, and ask your grace.”

Wind again soughed through silence, and Keladry held her hands above the graves. A drop of silver fell from each, spreading to shimmer over heaped soil, and raw earth was covered with tiny white flowers so thickly matted they blazed in the sunlight. Keladry knelt, and Taren followed her lead without conscious decision, Sam too, and all ogres and soldiers, as stormwings bowed heads.

“Thank you for your graces, High Ones. Rest in peace, Renna and Braka. May your graves ever be honoured. So mote it be.”

Even ogres and stormwings echoed her, and chimes sounded, gentle and sweet. The carpet of flowers gleamed, horses nickered gladly somewhere behind Taren, and Keladry rolled her head

“Is there aught you would say, Your Majesty, before we leave them to their rest?”

Queen Barzha bated. “No, Protector. You say all that is needed, and they know we honour them as innocents. The flowers are Sakuyo’s gift?”

“They are, and will bloom always.” Tears still glistened on Keladry’s cheeks. “But if we’re done here, let’s clean up and go home. I want to see Dom, and my children.”


	7. Chapter Six -- New Arrivals

**Six : New Arrivals**

_New Hope, 16 May – 19 June 464 HE_

 

THE remaining weeks of May were a different kind of education for Taren, Sam, and latterly Var, in thorough dealing with consequences. Keladry’s driving purpose had not ended with the girls’ rescue, and if the return to Dragonstown was less frantic than the journey out, it was still swift. Save for Captain Brodhelm’s squads, who used the deer-trail over the saddle, heading back to regular duty, they followed the valley south to collect the illegal settlers, already in the charge of Captain Mikal’s men. Taren and Sam would long remember the tearful relief of parents reunited with daughters, mixed with disgusted anger at the rapes they had endured, and a desperate fear of what would now happen to them that grew from lies they had been told about New Hope and immortals. Keladry’s patience in dealing with fears surprised them both, until she told them about dealing with refugees from Tirrsmont sold similar lies ; and return of their stolen daughters helped in more than one way.

All the rescued girls had become attached not only to Keladry but to the ogres who’d cradled them, and astonishingly to the stormwings. At their first bivouac Vorinna had woken them threshing and crying in a nightmare, and Barzha with other stormwings had been there as swiftly as Keladry, crooning notes that slowly eased the girl back into peaceful sleep. Tired as Taren and Sam were, the sounds Vorinna made had not let them sleep again so quickly, nor Keladry, and they had spoken for a while, round the campfire, of what stormwings did.

“They feed on emotions, and read them in mortals. And just as they can terrify, squeezing someone’s mind to force them to speech, so they can soothe. To do so is partly why they attend the funerals of innocents, but that’s a mild version, stroking sorrow, and they hadn’t thought about applying it more directly.”

“You said they help children who have nightmares from the war?”

“They do, Taren. I’ve heard them at hatchings, crooning love and encouragement, so I asked Barzha, and we found what she’s decided to call unterrorising worked just as well as terrorising. It’s good for them, too, because it’s another skill they can contribute. Duke Baird is coming to the nameday partly to talk to them about it, and see if we can’t get it used as a healing technique elsewhere. It’s not a cure — everyone has to live with memories, good and bad — but it’s a help. As you have seen.”

Taren half-wanted to ask if she used it herself, but forbore, and thinking of those bereaved in accidents, or who had been trapped underground, as well as of his mother and aunt, he sought out Queen Barzha to ask if a flock of stormwings might wish to roost at Stone Mountain, and what he would need to do. She was pleased by the enquiry, for it seemed many stormwings wanted to take advantage of the eggwifery offered at New Hope, and while she had no objection neither she nor Keladry wanted other flocks in long-term residence. A second place in the Mortal Realm offering care in return for cleanliness and such services as terrorising and unterrorising was thus welcome, and the only thing needed a standing invitation to feed when strong emotions were generated. Queen Barzha’s voice had been mellow and reflective in the darkness, as adult stormwings taught younglings the way of soothing, and Vorinna lay peacefully asleep.

“We were used to believing we needed the bright agonies of combat, and the strong satisfactions of besmirching the fallen, but if they remain welcome they are not as necessary as we had come to think after our confinement to the Divine Realms. The stream of new arrivals at New Hope, all spiky with wondering astonishment, offers a fine diet, and around the Protector there are often satisfying meals to be had.” Steel teeth had glinted in firelight. “From what you say of Stone Mountain, the relief of those who survive another day underground would have some value, the Guild will stir things up nicely, and if the flock was truly hungry they could always pay your uncle a visit.”

Taren had swallowed a shocked laugh, agreeing in a strangled voice that Uncle Henchard had strong emotions enough for any number of stormwings to dine on, and when he mentioned the conversation to Keladry she invited him to talks with some queens visiting at Samradh. He and Sam had fun imagining the reactions of many at Stone Mountain to resident stormwings, including their father.

 Vorinna, Fréawaru, and Hilde, though, posed more questions than their well-being, when Keladry drew their stories from them. They and the dead Renna and Braka were, or had been, of Clan Beorhtscyld, all motherless orphans whose fathers had died at New Hope. They’d been taken in by Clanchief Leofsson as scullery maids and general servants, getting by until the shaman had come, late last year. What had happened they knew only from rumours and glimpses, but they believed Leofsson and many others to be dead, and certainly the surviving loyalists had taken over — men left behind when Maggur’s army marched south either because they had been injured or as a guard that sounded more like an occupying force for the Clanhome. All had been very angry at news of utter defeat, the freeing of Maggur’s hostages, and the terms of the Peace Treaty, with recognition of Clanchief Hléoburh, so there had been harsh words when Leofsson and the survivors of the siege had returned, but until the shaman came the Clanchief had prevailed. Once the loyalists took charge, however, the orphans had been forced, and largely confined to slave quarters, so all they knew of what had happened over the winter were rumours of dark magic and people dying. With the thaw there had been a falling-out among loyalists, leading to the departure of the shaman with twenty-two men — four badly injured and subsequently dying ; the five girls had been dragged along, as servants and whores, they had thought, until the shaman had completed shaping the figure and killing began. Once Keladry had also spoken to the prisoners, still too shocked to defy her, she used a pocket spellmirror to contact Jorvik Hamrsson and Ragnar Ragnarsson, well on their way to Clan Beorhtscyld, and relayed what she knew.

“I’ll question the prisoners properly in Dragonstown, Jorvik, but they confirm that Vannar Leofsson and his family were killed last November, by the shaman with support from disgruntled loyalists, and name the shaman as Unferth, a bastard nephew or cousin of Inar Hadensra. Numair says that’s where the Chaos-taint will have come from, as Inar had direct dealings with Ozorne. Unferth also spoke of supplying Blayce with giants’ bones, and whether that’s true or just a boast he was certainly trying to make a clay version of a killing device, and apparently thought multiple souls bound to it with blood magic would make it unstoppable, which suggests he’d met Gissa. Demanding to kill children got him kicked out of Beorhtscyld, with those who supported him, which I suppose is a mercy, but as they let him take five girls whose fathers died at New Hope not much of one. In any case, wherever he’s been for the last decade he will have done lasting harm.”

Neither Clanchief had ever met Unferth, but Jorvik knew the name, and Keladry received grimly angry assurances that loyalists still at Beorhtscyld would be dealt with and the shaman backtracked. The conversation ended with her dry recommendation to pray to Lord Mithros to aid them in scouring away any effects of Chaos.

The three girls taken from the illegal settlers had been replacements for the dead, though it seemed several of the men who’d seized them had recognised them as cast-out Beorhtscyldings, and thought it providential they had been there to be taken in need. Keladry’s smile at that was sharp enough to cut, and Taren had thought of her words about divine irony, and her firm belief that she had not been wrong to think the girls’ abduction a form of bait, only about who was laying it, wondering what amusement the Black God might find in a providence the soldiers had sensed but utterly misunderstood. Sam’s account of what he had seen from the pine played in, for Unferth had had his knife raised when Keladry killed him, so every moment of haste to get there had been necessary, and having seen the clay figure writhing with trapped souls and Chaos Taren and Sam knew exactly why the Black God had driven her. Relied on her, even, as Sam pointed out, with other gods’ powers in the mix as well — Lord Weiryn’s bow and arrow-rest, enabling the down-fletched arrow to be used, and Lord Sakuyo’s gift of flowers, though Taren thought that had been as much to comfort Keladry as to ease the dead girls’ spirits.

If so, it had not lessened her rage, and there was a hard edge in much that she did. The fears of the illegal settlers might need patiently to be allayed, but they would come to Dragonstown regardless, with all speed ; nor did such fears excuse a decision not to seek proper food and shelter for their children, as, whatever horror stories they might have been told, they knew that Scanran survivors of the siege had been fed and entertained at New Hope for nearly three months. There was no question of returning to Clan Beorhtscyld yet, their daughters needed continued healing, and in her lands they would obey her rules, so while yes, they might farm, and would be allowed land, it would be done properly, and their children would be schooled, as all would train. Several adults reacted with sullen muttering that did not stop until they reached Dragonstown, and sight of Drachifethe, with a thriving, more-than-half-Scanran population, shifted resentment towards awed intimidation.

Var greeted them with prolonged hugs that told Taren how alone she had felt, and listened with widening eyes to the tale they had to tell. Sam was shaken by a burst of sobbing as he spoke of staring from the tree, horror-struck, and Keladry’s immediate shot, and they were all tearful before the end — but the tears were a purge, and they woke the next day feeling better in themselves, however distressed by events. Var’s idea about Keladry’s nursing was also borne out, for Domitan had brought the twins from the Citadel, and she was little seen for a day, spending far more time with them than nursing would demand. When she re-emerged the hard edge was softened in ordinary conversation, though it remained where the prisoners were concerned.

The whole, ghastly matter was laid out a few days later when Keladry held a public trial, presiding as Clanchief Hléoburh with Domitan by her side, on the bare slopes of the Tortallan bank with most of the town crowded round, or lining Drachifethe. At her request griffins came to ensure truth was spoken, and spellmirrors from the Bridgehouse enabled Jorvik Hamrsson and Ragnar Ragnarsson to attend from Beorhtscyld, now occupied by their troops, while others of the Council of Ten observed from Hamrkeng, and members of her Countess’s Council from the Citadel. Wuodan, Frige, and Cerus were joined by more hounds, watching with interest, as stormwings did, and others came to observe, including a silent but intent Master Sternross.

The adults among the illegal settlers spoke first, plainly scared of the griffins, then their abducted daughters and the other three girls, just as plainly not. The rape and abuse they had suffered whitened faces all around, and their faltering descriptions of what the shaman had been trying to do, and how, produced a deep silence. Master Numair and Mistress Daine explained what they had seen, careful to distinguish fact from what they believed but could not attest to, and included clear accounts of what they had seen Keladry do, and heard the Black God say. Wuodan, Frige, and Cerus confirmed their perceptions of souls, magic, and Chaos-taint. Rumours had spread like wildfire since their return, but Keladry had said little to anyone, save presumably Domitan ; now, with the whole laid out, she rose to stand between the griffins, confirmed the speech of the Black God with the blessing of Lord Sakuyo’s flowers on the graves, and swore it all by god’s oath. When chimes reverberated over the water the light of Drachifethe pulsed brightly, and the crowd’s silence was broken as many bowed and made the gods’ sign themselves.

Last came the prisoners, and if stormwings did not have to compel them to speech, griffins forestalled many lies. None wanted to admit it, but all were forced to concede that Vannar Leofsson had been murdered, not duly challenged, and that they knew full well such treason, like rape and death magic, was a capital crime by their own laws. Keladry’s relentless questioning exposed the power they had enjoyed as loyalists and revelled in as bullies, bitter resentment of defeat, the shaman’s promises of women and a weapon none would be able to stop, complicity in murder, even expulsion of the settler families for no better reason than the shaman wanting their houses to work in — and beneath their political fervour, coils of lust and greed, with empty souls and consciences. Had not Maggur given the children of his own clan to Blayce, to bring Scanra glory? Why then should they not do as much for Unferth, who had the guts still to resist a shameful defeat?

When Keladry had heard enough, she stood to pass sentence, and her voice was terrible to hear, still flat with rage yet laced with pain.

“I told Maggur Reidarsson he had to die that children may live, and I tell you the same. For complicity in the murder of your oathsworn clanchief, Vannar Leofsson, with his family ; repeated rapes and murders of Renna Eriksdottir and Braka Haraldsdottir ; and repeated rapes of Vorinna Jensdottir, Fréawaru Gustavsdottir, Hilde Andersdottir, Koramir Larsdottir, Sharra Magnusdottir, and Mereleofa Svensdottir ; and for participation in death magic, your own deaths are the only possible sentence in first payment. And your bodies will not burn, to send you to the company of your forefathers, but be buried in unmarked graves, without tears or plea for the Black God’s mercy.”

She turned to the spellmirrors. “Do you need them alive in Beorhtscyld or Hamrkeng ere they die, Jorvik Hamrsson?”

“If you will allow it, Clanchief Hléoburh. There were other crimes here that need an accounting.”

“Will you give me your word as leader of the Council of Ten that, sent to you to question as you will, all will be executed and buried as I have ordered before Mabon?”

“I will, and I do.”

“They will be on their way tomorrow. Send your men to meet mine.”

“I will. On behalf of the Council, and all Scanra, as well as for myself, I offer our warmest thanks for your service, Keladry Ilanesdottir, as Clanchief and Protector of the Small. We had barely begun to suspect something amiss at Beorhtscyld, yet you have already ended the worst of it. And once again the gods you called on answered you, swiftly and decisively, as you answered their call. Let all Scanra heed these things.”

Scanrans in the crowd, and spellmirrors, bowed with hands over hearts, and Keladry inclined her head.

“Clanchief Hléoburh, your clan has borne trouble and expense in this, and risked blood. The fault is wholly of Clan Beorhtscyld, who banished into your lands both innocent and guilty, without informing you. What justice do you require of them, that their guilt be paid for?”

Keladry was silent for a moment. “I ask three things, Jorvik Hamrsson.” Taren wondered about that ‘ask’ and Jorvik’s ‘require’. “First, if there are any of Clan Beorhtscyld who survived New Hope yet supported Unferth, I would speak with those ones ere they die.”

Jorvik blinked. “Surely. Any such are forsworn.”

“And I will know why. Second, that Clan Beorhtscyld acknowledge all six girls as no longer of their number, but of mine. All six desire it to be so, and I have granted their wish. Though not of age, Vorinna, Fréawaru, and Hilde have none to gainsay them, and if the fathers of Koramir, Sharra, and Mereleofa decide to return to Clan Beorhtscyld, they will do so without their daughters, by my decree.”

This time Jorvik’s eyes narrowed for a long moment, and he met the gaze of the Clanchiefs in the other mirror, then nodded.

“Yes. However it came about, their fathers lost them, and you found them. The families came wrongly to your lands yet concealed themselves, not asking leave, and still you answered them in their need. This decision is within your rights, and Clan Beorhtscyld shall acknowledge it.”

“Just so. And third, I find I dislike slavery at Clan Beorhtscyld even more than I dislike it elsewhere, so there will in future be none. And as no slave is a member of any clan, all whom you and Ragnar find to have been slaves of Clan Beorhtscyld are clanless folk, and will have the choice of remaining so or of being accepted into either Clan Beorhtscyld or Clan Hléoburh.”

Taren was surprised by Jorvik’s sudden broad smile.

“Ah, there it is, rightly argued and cleverly done. A majority of the Council attend here. Will any gainsay Clanchief Hléoburh in this?” He gave it long enough for silence to burn. “Nor I. Your terms are accepted, Clanchief Hléoburh. Do you say that when they are met all guilt is done?”

“I do, Jorvik Hamrsson. I also say to all Scanra that Clan Beorhtscyld will have no third chance.”

There was more silence before Jorvik nodded. “We hear you, Clanchief Hléoburh, and if Clan Beorhtscyld does not, they fall to you and none shall speak against it.”

Keladry bowed to Jorvik before turning to face the crowd. “Does any being here, save only the condemned, question anything in this justice?”

Master Sternross did, voice sharp even in Scanran. “None should be so buried, Lady Keladry, whatever their crime. It is impious.”

Keladry closed her eyes for a second. “So you may believe, Master Sternross, but I disagree, and so does the Black God. Infinite as his mercy is, I will commend to it none who wilfully slay children, and these condemned will meet his judges bearing my sentence. Does any other being have anything they would say before this ends?”

For a moment Taren thought Master Sternross was going to argue, but he was forestalled by Queen Barzha.

“Tell us when you are done with your questions, Jorvik Hamrsson, and they can die as Maggur Reidarsson died, beneath my wing.”

Keladry gave the stormwing queen a strange look, then Jorvik a nod. He accepted the offer with a bow, and when no-one else had anything to say she declared proceedings over, gave Captain Mikal orders to despatch the prisoners north at first light, spoke briefly to the watching Clanchiefs before blanking the mirrors, and went to talk to Queen Barzha. Taren saw Master Sternross looking as if he wished to interrupt them, and went across.

“I wouldn’t if I were you, Master Sternross. I saw what those men did, and were it my judgement I would allow them no rites either.”

“Then you would be as impious as she is, my lord.”

“Impious? Did you not listen? The Black God calls her _daughter_ , and I saw his grace pour from her hands. You confuse piety and propriety.”

“I do not. What is improper cannot be pious.”

“Nonsense. And you’re still not listening, Master Sternross. She is as mortal as you and I, but silver poured from her hands to cleanse the world of a horror. The gods bless her, not you, and you call her impious?”

“None of this is right! This melding of blood magic and death magic, both accursed, comes of what Numair is so recklessly teaching. Magics melding and joining. It is obscene.”

“You are wrong, Master Sternross.” Var had listened silently throughout, but her voice now was as cold as Taren had ever heard. “And if you see no difference between attempting death magic, and the co-operation of basilisks and ogres to build fine roads, or of spidrens and mortals to make icelights, then you are truly a fool.”

“The principle is the same!”

“More nonsense. And you will give my sister her dignities, Master Sternross, or beware. You are as uncivil as you are foolish.”

“Yes, he is.” Keladry stood behind the old mage, Domitan, Master Numair, his wife, and Wuodan with her, and her voice was hard with exasperation. “Second and last warning, Master Sternross. I am very nearly out of allowances for your age and what you think your piety. The gods prefer honesty, with oneself as with them. And I tell you flatly you do not understand the Black God at all, nor the nature of his mercy and justice. The one is indeed infinite, but he is not the brother of Lord Mithros for nothing. You have borne witness, as is your right. My justice is open to all in the three realms. Now go away, before I let Numair turn you into a tree. And if I were you, I’d beg the Black God’s forgiveness for doubting him while you still can.”

_Seconded._

Wuodan followed his agreement with a loud growl, and Master Sternross fled, robes flapping, while Keladry gave the hound another of her looks, blandly returned — though how Wuodan did bland Taren wasn’t at all sure.

_Some mortals need more telling than others, Protector. And we live to serve._

“Of course you do. Would you like to go and give the City of the Gods the testimony of events in Yaman they want, and save poor Avinar ever so much trouble?”

Wuodan shuddered delicately, making Keladry smile, and for the first time in a while it reached her eyes.

_Certainly not, Protector. Even our power has limits._

“Good to know, Wuodan. I must feed the twins, then I want food. Let’s go.”

The meal, again on the terrace of _The Smugglers’ Rest_ , included all hounds present, though they had haunches to crack while mortals worked their way through good soup, venison, and fruit pudding. Queen Barzha and Lord Hebakh were also there, perched on the railings, and as any remaining corners were filled from a cheeseboard, and Keladry spoke quietly with Chief Gella and her son, Taren, Sam, and Var found themselves listening to the Queen, her voice both admiring and ironic.

“You’ve been quite heroic in not asking, so I’ll tell you. The Protector had us witness her execution of Rogal, so we know  _exactly_ how much she hated having to do it, and why she felt she had to. She would order no mortal to do what she was reluctant to do herself, and it was the same with immortals in Yaman. She’d have chopped each of those traitors’ silly heads off, vomiting the while, if Rainbow, Diamondflame, and Harist’aaniar’aan hadn’t taken it on themselves. Touching, but silly. And while there seems to be very little she won’t do at need, she’s avoided appointing a headsman for New Hope, though one was always going to be called for sooner or later. So as sanctioned chopping of heads bothers stormwings not one whit, we thought we’d take it on, starting now.”

Taren nodded, knowing Sam and Var heard what he did. “You act in love and justice, Your Majesty.”

“I do, and we do, yes.” Queen Barzha shook her head, eyes half-lidded. “Her wisdom rubs off on mortals, as on immortals and gods. Even on the Timeway, if Sakuyo and Diamondflame are to be believed, which they usually are. What’s a poor stormwing queen to do?”

“Heal children, harm the deserving, and be glad of both?”

“More mortal wisdom. It’s a wonder you can still walk, with heads grown so large. But it’s past our roosting time. Sleep well, wise ones.”

Both stormwings glided from the terrace railings to those of Drachifethe, where others already roosted, gleaming in the godlight, and Taren turned from watching them to find Keladry watching him.

“She told you of her offer, Taren?”

“She did, yes. It is … kindly meant.”

“I know. And a great relief, frankly, as well as another feeding boost for them. The only problem is the title — I can hardly call Barzha a headsman, and headsstormwing is an awkward mouthful.”

“Headswing?” Sam offered. “With a  _swing as_  well as a _wing_.”

“That might do, Saman.” Keladry smiled. “I like it, and I’ll ask Barzha. Mostly, though, I hope we have no need of any executioner for a long time. And no more holdovers from the war.”

“No indeed.” Taren hesitated, but went on. “May I ask about the echoes of New Hope Mistress Daine mentioned? Sam and I have been trying to explain what we saw to Var, and that has us all confused.”

“I can try, though I’m none too sure myself.” Keladry sat back in her chair, and Taren realised everyone was listening. “Daine noticed two things, that the palisade against that step in the cliff resembled the way New Hope is built against cliffs and fin, and that I was again going to use the Godbow from on high. It might be only coincidence. Height always gives range and angle, and it’s common sense to use a natural feature if you can. Or one of the loyalists might have known enough of New Hope to try an imitation. But Unferth was also imitating Blayce, who also raped as well as murdered children, and that’s one too many alsos for me. It’s probably an echo in the Timeway — just a little one, gods be thanked, an ugly little eddy spun off the roil. What I don’t know about at all is the Chaos, though. Chaos-taint makes beings act against their natures, so Unferth probably started off liking children, and it will have played a part in making loyalists accept the murder of a clanchief. But then again, the tauroses were Chaos-tainted, and so were some giants at the siege, so it might all be another part of the echo pattern.”

“From what Tar and Sam tell me, the journey was a mirror of your mission to Rathhausak — up the Smiskir Valley, but then west not east.”

“Quite right, Varia. And a strange prompt from beyond the Mortal Realm each time. It’s what had me jumpy to begin with, and partly why I took such force.”

“Why else?”

Keladry shrugged, and Domitan covered her hand with his.

“There might have been many more of them then there were, Taren, and outnumbering the enemy is always better for safety as well as victory. Overwhelming strength meant Kel took no casualties.”

“Just as you took so many weapons because you didn’t know which would be needed?”

She nodded. “Yes. You can’t use what you’ve left at home, though my desire to fight with  _katana_ and  _ko-wazikashi_ is nil. And the Godbow likes to be used, not kept sitting around waiting for special occasions, so I try, though hunting with it always feels like cheating.”

“Only you, Kel.” Mistress Daine was amused. “No bad shots to leave a creature suffering isn’t cheating. And nobody says I can’t enter archery competitions using mine. But Numair and I agree about a nasty little eddy in the Timeway, and death magic would have drawn the gods’ attention fast enough.”

“Not for Renna or Braka, Daine.”

“No. Kitten’s very sorry to have missed you scolding Lord Mithros about that. And it sounds as if it might actually do some good this time.”

“You’ve scolded him before?”

Var was incredulous, though Taren and Sam weren’t so surprised. Keladry waved a hand, Domitan rolled eyes, and Mistress Daine laughed.

“Several times now, Varia. Once about tauroses having no mates, which he took to heart, then about letting my Da and Ma visit more often, which Kel wrangled somehow despite the rules, bless her. But this time was different because he wasn’t even there, but acknowledged it. And Kitten’s interested because she had a go herself, once, and is still annoyed he didn’t listen properly.”

“She does now agree that not all gods are always annoying, Magelet. It’s progress.”

“True.” Mistress Daine grinned at her husband. “And it’s not just Lord Sakuyo for saving her life. She thinks the Black God was fair useful this time. But you know, Kel, if Mithros does do something about any remaining Chaos-taint, you’ll actually be three for three with scolding him, and I doubt there’s many can say that.”

_Only the Great Goddess, Godborn. The Protector offers solutions when she takes him to task, so accepting them is easier than arguing with her._

Keladry’s eyes narrowed. “With the tauroses, maybe, Wuodan. Sort of, anyway. But letting Lord Weiryn visit Drachifethe was barracks lawyering, and I have no solution to Chaos-taint.”

_He liked the lawyering, and you have thrice dealt with Chaos-taint yourself. In Yaman, too, your plea was not for him to do anything himself, only for his let that you and others might act. Who can wonder that he likes you?_

Keladry just rolled her eyes, but many were grinning around the table, and Chief Gella cackled.

“Barracks lawyering with the gods, Lady Kel? I don’t recall hearing about that one. Do tell.”

“No. Ask Daine and Numair, if you must.”

“We only know what you told us, Kel, and what Da said Mithros said.”

“So? We’ve already had quite enough gossiping about Lord Mithros, and I — did you need me, Kora?”

The woman who’d welcomed them to _The Smugglers’ Rest_ on their first night in Dragonstown — which seemed a lot longer than ten days before — gave a curtsey.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, Lady Kel, but there’s a couple from Somalkt who ask if they might speak with you. Pilgrims. They’ve come in to eat a few times over the last week, and been no trouble, so I said I’d ask.”

“No problem, Kora. Bring them along, please.”

Guthlaf Eriksson and Marga Bjornsdottir were well-dressed, in later middle age, and nervous to be in such company, offering many bows, hands over hearts, but also piously determined.

“Our Clanchief Ragnar Ragnarsson has spoken much of New Hope and Drachifethe, Clanchief Hléoburh, and seeks to restore piety in our wartorn land, so we came as pilgrims. We have found all as he said, the weight and light of the gods in everything, easing our hearts. And then today, hearing of great evils and more divine blessings in their cleansing, we are moved to offer service.”

The man paused for breath.

“That is well, Guthlaf Eriksson. How would you serve?”

“You said you had not been able to mark the graves of Renna Eriksdottir and Braka Haraldsdottir with their names, so we offer to do so as we return to Somalkt. I am a mason, so I can carve headstones myself, if you will tell me what you wish for this new place of pilgrimage. And our horses can bear them, if we walk, but we would need a guide, and if they are willing would be glad to speak with those once of Clan Beorhtscyld who knew the dead, and can tell us of their lives, that we may honour them in knowledge, not in ignorance.”

Keladry stared, then nodded. “You speak well, Guthlaf Eriksson, and your offer is accepted, in all honour. The headstones should be simple. Austere, even. Do not compete with Lord Sakuyo’s grace of flowers, just the girls’ names and dates, and … yes, _Victims of Clan Beorhtscyld, killed by their own._ Let that clan’s shame be known. Come to the Bridgehouse tomorrow, and I’ll arrange for you to talk to Vorinna, Fréawaru, and Hilde, if they are willing, and see about a guide.”

_We will guide them, Protector, and guard their steps._

“Thank you, Wuodan. That would be good.”

Taren wasn’t sure the couple would quite say that, but they weren’t going to refuse, and after they’d been ushered out again by a smiling Kora, Keladry propped her chin on her hands and sighed.

“What’s the problem, Kel? That was unexpected but felt right to me.”

“To me too, Daine. But _new place of pilgrimage_? And he’s right. I prayed that those graves be ever honoured, which was right too but means I now need yet another Pilgrims’ Way and a set of inns and wayhouses. So tell me, what  _kanji_ would you put in a teahouse up there?”

There was a long silence.

“Exactly. I’m going to bed.”

 

* * * * *

 

Back at the Citadel Taren, Sam, and Var found themselves idly, or not so idly, playing the teahouse-words game for one at Stone Mountain. Sam suggested  _pride, fall_ , _lesson_ , and Var several variations on _stone_ , _fire_ , _gift_ , _song_ , and _mathematics_. Taren’s thoughts tended to be darker, and he didn’t mention _eldest_ , _blondest_ , _deadest_ , but did amuse his siblings with _Skysong_ , _talkative_ , _insatiable_. The dragonet did indeed regret missing Lord Mithros being scolded, and wanted his and Sam’s accounts of it. It wasn’t a request he found he relished honouring, centred on such horror, but even a small dragon was not to be denied, and they received treasure in return — a closely detailed account of events in Yaman, from a very peculiar perspective.

Much of it concerned Lady Skysong’s experiences of being targeted by an assassin and having to kill, the distress both had caused, and the sensible advice her grandsire, basilisks, and Keladry had given her about dealing with it, with the Wild Hunt only a necessary interlude between crime and punishment. Having no such experiences himself Taren felt unable to do anything save listen, but thought she had dealt with events well, especially as she was a few months younger than Var ; he also found himself in unexpected agreement with the Horse God about her feeling better when the possibility of having to kill again retreated, telling Lady Skysong of his own relief when he’d banished his uncle and could relax in his own house, but was deeply astonished to learn Lady Fujiwara had asked for forgiveness  _after_ her death.

“I thought the dead were not allowed speech with the living, my lady.”

_Grandsire said they are not, in the Mortal Realm, but the rule only applies once they have left it. Her soul was still here, so she could, and I told her to tell the Black God I forgave her alone, and to ask him to tell the man I killed that I regretted the necessity. I do not believe she would have failed to do so, but it is annoying not to be able to check._

“You said the Graveyard Hag was there?”

 _Yes, with Dabeyoun._ Lady Skysong’s mindvoice became disgruntled. _She said it was all very touching, and enough was enough. Kel says she isn’t as horrid as she once thought, but she is_ always _annoying, as far as I can tell._

“Ah.” Taren felt his head spin, not only with draconic pronouns. “Well, I’m sure she would have told her father all that was done and said, and he might have been watching himself, you know. I’d think most gods were.”

 _Oh. Yes, I suppose so. But I still find not_ knowing _annoying._

“Many things are. We just have to live with it.”

_And that is annoying too. But I think you are right that the Black God was listening, and Ebony would know. I should have thought of that. I will go and ask._

The dragonet bounced out, and the siblings went by mutual consent to the shrines to be thankful to the Black God for his more recent grace. It was not as if any of them had been in real danger, but both Taren and Sam remained heartsick at what they had seen, and all of them were haunted by the evil that had been done, and the manner of it. The Black God seemed to help, as did sight of the rescued girls recovering, if not blossoming. Keladry had brought all the illegal settlers to the Citadel, mostly because the girls needed healers and stormwings available there, partly because their families still half-wanted to return to Clan Beorhtscyld, where Jorvik Hamrsson and Ragnar Ragnarsson were overseeing a thorough clear-up. There was, Taren saw, a calculated exposure to truths and wonders that worked just as well as sight of Drachifethe. Vorinna, Fréawaru, and Hilde had come south too, and been formally accepted into Clan Hléoburh ; all were still deeply distressed, but the combination of healers and stormwings, prayers to the Black God and Lord Gainel, and Keladry’s practical kindness was working wonders of its own. She housed them with New Hopers of their own age who knew much of enduring horror, and he had seen Miss Loesia and others speaking both gently and fiercely to them, and a youngster called Meech, just turned eight, gravely offer and receive hugs.

Mrs Spinner told them something of Meech’s story, adding that the tale of his balding his doll so Lady Kel could track him, and her replacing it, was a great favourite with all the Protector’s Maids. It was shown in one of the panels also, but Taren had not quite imagined from that the brutal reality of a five-year-old so abducted, nor understood the nature of Meech’s sacrifice and his faith that Keladry would come for her refugees, and need a trail to follow. It might have left him as melancholy as impressed, but Mrs Spinner was a happy woman, having completed her tasks of properly clothing Domitan, Tobeis, and Irnai, and Var persuaded Irnai, easily enough, and Tobeis, more reluctantly, into showing off some of their new wardrobes. For everyday wear, quality materials and excellent tailoring were combined with sturdy practicality, meaning reinforced seats and knees, and plentiful pockets ; and for the festival and formal wear Mrs Weaver had outdone herself in designs Mrs Spinner had executed — a new set of Kmiri leggings and tunic for Irnai, with three dresses that had Var narrowing eyes and making notes, and four New Hope tunics for Tobeis in striking colours and cuts. Domitan did not offer to model his new garments, but Keladry expressed a wry satisfaction that he now had more than one good tunic and one Yamani robe to choose from when dressing up was called for.

And it was increasingly called for. With June guests began to arrive, a trickle becoming a stream, and the informal eating in the messhall Keladry preferred was replaced by dinners in the great reception room. Two of her sisters were first to arrive, Lady Adalia with her husband, Merovec of Nond, and Lady Oranie with hers, Ortien of Hannalof, each with a variety of children delighted to be back at New Hope, who to Taren’s mild bemusement seemed to take its many wonders largely for granted. The same could not be said of their parents, Merovec especially having a deferential wariness towards Keladry and all immortals that Taren thought they politely bore with but were exasperated by. Merovec was also wary of him, though not Sam or Var, suggesting power rather than rank or kind as the cause, and after thinking about it Taren decided that for all the oppressions of Stone Mountain he was glad not to have been raised in a household ruled by Nond.

Ortien and Merovec brought several Nond and Hannalof connections who were to help establish Guild branches, and on the road had fallen in with others coming from Richcaffery, Teresian, and elsewhere. Keladry had set aside a barracks for all who needed that training, and though welcoming them warmly turned them over without compunction to Master Valestone for legalities and finances, and to various immortals for explanations of what they would and wouldn’t do, with production of basilisk glass, icelights, hoick’ems, and Master Geraint’s architectural and building services. They would be staying longer than the Nameday guests, and Keladry would, she promised, be able to give them more time once Samradh was past — a simple truth, as all could see how busy she was, and for Taren an opportunity as he made time to sit with them, individually and collectively, introducing Sam and Var and making connections for Stone Mountain. Erde of Hannalof knew Svein, and had heard good things about changes Taren had made, while all were pleased to make connections of their own with a ruling lord, however new and young, and once or twice he caught Keladry looking at him with ironic approval. Some who were unmarried were distinctly attentive to Var, and while she had no romantic regard for any of them, and made that politely clear, Taren began to realise she was thought a very eligible match despite her unusual interests.

Those came to the fore one evening, after the arrival of Keladry’s parents and eldest brothers, Sir Anders and Sir Inness, all very taken with the giant greenhouse, where orange and lemon saplings, with other southern plants, were thriving, and wondering where one might be built at Mindelan. Merovec’s comment that it seemed an expensive indulgence led to discussion of the value and costs of shipping citrus and other fruits, but Var turned the conversation by saying that the new geometry was just as important, and backed it up with suggested applications. More buildings than greenhouses could use domes, and the maths worked for curved walls as well as spheres, but it was the idea of more accurate large-scale maps, with Var’s brisk demonstration of why a landscape curved on all axes could not accurately be plotted on paper, that sat several people up. For journeys by land it didn’t matter so much, but more accurate positioning at sea was potentially critical, even if knowing how far east or west you were remained a real navigational problem.

Taren also watched Keladry’s interactions with her family with sharpening interest. She had clearly been pleased to see Ladies Oranie and Adalia, and at ease with them, but with her brothers, especially Sir Anders, there was a deeper warmth, and when it came to her parents Taren acknowledged his envy. Their Graces of Mindelan were kind, strong, loving, and forthright, and though they could make her both blush and glower Keladry clearly found their approval a boon, and more. Her account of recent events to her sisters and their husbands had been minimal, and they had not pushed, but Their Graces drew a fuller version from her, however she tried to refer them to the record of the trial. With some older nephews and nieces present she didn’t dwell on horrors, but facts were there, and gods, with a complexity of attitude.

“You told Lord Mithros to _deal with it?_ ”

His Grace’s voice was faint.

“I did, Papa, and I’m not repining. I don’t mind the Black God calling on me, and all gods know those poor girls needed someone, but the only reason Lord Mithros would accept a mortal rebuke is because he knows it well-deserved. Oh, you could argue that as an eddy of the Timeway, spun off what happened here and at Rathhausak, it’s right that it fell to me, and that His Nibs was helpful — Lords Weiryn and Arawn too — but it’s still true that if Lord Mithros had pulled his divine finger out ten years ago, and dealt with Uusoae’s taint, as every other god I’ve spoken to about it agrees he should have, many things might be very different. And yes, however little I like it I can see that what happened to me might have been necessary somehow — if I hadn’t had the Black God’s forgiveness I couldn’t have used the killing field and dragonfire as I did. But I am still heartsick of dealing with the consequences of his inaction, which has left a lot of people hideously dead or needing all the care they can get. And I don’t just mean this time round — those tauroses killed more than a dozen, besides me, seventeen died in the giants’ attack, more from the trebuchet, which couldn’t have been worked without them, and who knows how many elsewhere? Now this. And whether Clan Beorhtscyld will survive is far from clear — Jorvik and Ragnar are trying, but there’ll be more than my eight executions although the last thing Scanra needs is more losses.”

“That’s true enough, my dear.” His Grace sighed. “And I do hear you, however I cannot think it wise to speak so to Lord Mithros.”

“It probably isn’t, Papa, but that doesn’t make it wrong.”

“No. Still, Lord Sakuyo is one thing, Lord Mithros another.”

Keladry waved a hand. “He doesn’t mind plain speaking, Papa.” She shook her head ruefully. “I realise I can’t say Chaos is purely divine business, mortals being half-chaos, but I can’t help feeling that if Uusoae’s crime was bad enough to get her locked up by Father Universe and Mother Flame, in a cage of dead matter and starfire, no less, then  _I_ shouldn’t have to be dealing with everything she tainted along her way.”

“Sweeting!” Her Grace’s hand went to her mouth. “When you put it like that, it’s hard to argue. But you  _did_ deal with it, and very well. Do count the rescued, as well as the lost.”

“I do, Mama. And we’ve gone from tainted tauroses to tainted giants to a tainted shaman, so I suppose we’re headed in the right direction. Roll on the tainted giftless, and then what? Perhaps I can work through to tainted mosquitoes in a decade or two.”

Mistress Daine’s laugh was welcome.

“Uusoae didn’t bother with the People, Kel, and if any mosquitoes managed a bite they’re long gone by now. Having met her, I can only hope lots did.” Master Numair stifled a snort, and Keladry smiled, though others looked bewildered. “And I wouldn’t worry, Piers. Kel said no more than many have. Da’s been muttering about it for years, and he’s not the only one.”

“Even so, Daine. Lord Weiryn has a brother’s privilege.”

“Make that a brother’s right, Da.” Sir Anders gave Keladry a grin. “And say that Kel has a hard-earned privilege. But have you thought, little sister, that if  _not_ cleaning up before was somehow necessary, this was equally so, however unfathomable?”

“I have, Anders, but I can’t see why it should be. What did anyone get out of it, except loss?” Keladry shrugged. “The only thing that makes the slightest sense is to file it under the Timeway. Yaman was a big eddy, and this was a small one. They say bad things come in threes, so perhaps eddies do too, but I can only try to be prepared, and it would be nice, for once, to know what I had to prepare for.”

“Let’s stick to the Nameday, sweeting, and all your guests.”

Conversation broadened, and Taren saw relief on several faces, including Merovec’s and Ortien’s, though a wariness of Keladry remained. Her sisters were less bothered but still glad to move on, while her brothers (with Domitan and Tobeis) were far more clearly concerned  _for_ her. He, Sam, and Var had been forced into close alliance, and without that pressure — perhaps inevitably, given so many siblings — the Mindelans were not all as close. He wondered about those who were absent, Ladies Patricine and Demadine, Lord Avinar, and dead Sir Conal, but was interested to realise he was more impressed by Keladry’s continuing assessment of possible implications, and worried by the thought of a further eddy, than alarmed by her attitudes. Was that what it might mean to walk with her as she walked with the gods?

The next afternoon Taren invited Their Graces to tea, apologising for his inexperience with the basilisk-ware tea-set he had purchased. He was cautious, asking after Mindelan and its Guild branch, and learning they had commissioned Master Geraint to build a temple of Lord Sakuyo, but realised they had questions too, and were happy to trade. Formalities were soon dispensed with, though it still felt very odd to him to call a couple so much older by their bare names, and he found himself warmed by their evident approval of his new policies at Stone Mountain.

“You all made quite the impression in Corus.” Ilane smiled. “Imrah liked you, and Nond thinks you’ll do nicely, no less. And what you’ve done here will go down well with many people.” He looked his confusion, and she waggled a hand. “Riding to the rescue with Kel, for starters.”

“She rode to the rescue. Sam and I just tagged along. Well, Sam held her belt up the tree.”

“You went, Taren.” Piers nodded. “Many nobles would not have done.”

Ilane snorted. “Many nobles couldn’t have made that ride to save their own lives. And few would have lent their men as unhesitatingly.”

“What are soldiers for? It was good experience for Vesker and all of them. But I confess I envy their getting to do something useful. Sam, too. I just stood about. Yet I’m also relieved neither of us had to kill.”

“Me too, Tar. And you saw what you saw — not only the horror, but the grace. We’ve all seen it … I don’t know, passively, maybe. We heard the stories, and saw the way immortals treat Keladry. But seeing it actively has changed you and Sam, I think. You heard two gods speak. Maybe  _useful_ isn’t the word, but that’s something.”

“Mmm. I know I’ve changed, Var. You can’t not.”

“But it wasn’t just hearing the gods, Var, even if my head’s still ringing.” Sam shrugged. “I can’t speak for Tar, but what I dream of isn’t just that awful thing, twitching and stinking, but Keladry dealing with it. It was all I could do not to retch, and she took one look and called the Black God to her hand,  _knowing_ he would come. And it was the same up the tree, really. I froze when I saw what was happening, until she snapped me out of it — I can still hear her — and I barely had a hand on her belt before she’d nocked, aimed, and fired.”

“Ah yes. Nealan calls it _see bully, smite bully_.” Ilane’s smile was wry. “It gives us conniptions sometimes too, Saman, but that’s Kel and has been since she was very small. She just has rather greater resources to work with, these days, gods be thanked. Literally, however it bothers her. And at least she wasn’t wounded this time.”

“Not physically.” Taren tried to think. “And I don’t just mean her rage over those poor girls, and Unferth’s evil. Her Clanchief’s Guard have been … well, warier, or wider-eyed, around her since we got back to Dragonstown, and she doesn’t like it at all.”

“Ah, thank you, Taren. I’ve been trying to put my finger on that. We should have guessed, love.”

“Yes. More Shinkokami.” Piers sighed. “You see her well, Taren. She and the Crown Princess have been friends since they were six, but seeing her chatting with Lord Sakuyo upset Shinko’s equilibrium, rather. We’ve been working on her, as has Roald, but she’s grappling with a new understanding of her own life, with Lord Sakuyo’s designs on it, and is still in shock, really. But Kel finds her, um, exaggerated and withdrawn respect very painful.”

“Walking with the gods is costly.”

“Oh yes. Very. And yet.”

“Forgive me, but how do you cope yourselves?”

That was the question Taren had most wanted to ask, and Piers and Ilane looked at one another before he answered.

“With rejoicing and sorrow, every day, Taren. Rejoicing because she has so gloriously exceeded anything we could have hoped for, and truly does walk with the gods. And sorrow for the same reasons. I have always been, well, pious, I suppose, and hoped to be of use to the gods, but my youngest has taught me what it truly means for them to use you. To find uses for you. Do you know that she thinks of herself, amid much else, as the greatest killer alive?”

“Yes. Her men think she bears bloodguilt for them, as the Black God does for us all.”

“They’re not wrong, alas. But we have come to realise the gods do give her consolations, as well as costs.” Piers straightened. “Your idea that they served her up her worst enemies is a part of it, I believe, but think of friends also. Tobeis and Irnai, with their talents, and above all Domitan and her healthy, wonderful twins, eased into the world by the Green Lady. Lord Diamondflame and her other immortal friends are her own doing, for even the gods don’t command them. But you three are a part of it, too, I think. I mean no offence, but where she first thought of you as your father’s victims, some of the small she feels obliged to protect, you are well on the way to becoming friends. And Kel needs friends even more than she needs liegers. It’s not that she lacks them, gods know, but most have their own duties elsewhere. And there are not so many mortals who do not also look to her as liegelady or Protector or Clanchief, and so bring their own constraints.”

Taren had been staring with a sense of incredulity, but knew the way people looked at him had changed when he inherited so unexpectedly. Even his mother and aunt had acquired a deference, and his relations with Horgan had shifted. Only Sam and Var had not been distanced, and that was because his first, instinctive reaction had been to pull them within his power ; as Keladry had pulled Tobeis and Irnai. _It seems disrespectful. It sounds friendly_. Yet he had not been able to go further than calling her Keladry, keeping to the full form in what he had supposed proper respect, but remained his own brand of wariness. And what did he know of friendship, anyway? The same forces that bonded him with Sam and Var had isolated them from other children, so he had no experience of it, and it was no coincidence that those he’d got on with best in Corus were honourable older men — not just father figures, which he had recognised, but because as their junior by a long way he hadn’t needed to think of them as friends, concealing his incapacity from himself. His head spun.

“Tar?”

“I’m sorry, Var. Something made sense, suddenly.” He met Piers’s eyes. “I have been very grateful for Keladry’s example, and instruction, we all have, but I had not presumed to friendship. It wasn’t something that happened at Stone Mountain.”

Both Piers and Ilane winced.

“Well, it happens here, Taren.” Ilane settled in her chair. “Forgive me, but was your father as formal at home as he was in public?”

“Oh yes. We could call him Father, or sir. It’s why it seems so wrong to me to drop titles.”

“Formality has its place. But friends don’t use titles.”

“No. It’s just … I didn’t expect …”

“You came to apologise, and to set your fief straight with the Guild, and didn’t expect to make a friend? No, there’s more, isn’t there?” Ilane’s voice was gentle, but remorseless. “Do you have any idea how pleased Kel was when she got your letter?”

“Commander Svein told us she was.” Var was frowning, gaze flicking between him and Ilane. “I don’t think we really understand why, though. She’s done far more for us than we have for her.”

“That’s true for almost everyone, Varia, from His Majesty down, not that Kel likes admitting it.” Piers had a rueful smile. “But as to why, well, she’d been worrying about you all for a while, so hearing from you was a blessing.”

“Worrying about us? But why should she?”

“Because of your father. Goddess, I can hear her yet. She came back from taking him to meet the elemental in a very complicated mood, but a part of her was fulminating about the way Lord Burchard’s grief for Joren was blinding him to the fact that he had other children.” Ilane shook her head, remembering. “And she was blaming herself, in a very Kel way, for not thinking before about what being Joren’s sibling must be like. She didn’t even know your names, but she felt bad for you.”

“Joren’s death didn’t blind Father to us.” Taren knew his voice was harsh. “His birth did. Or maybe his mother’s death. Father never cared a copper bit for any of us until I became his unwanted heir.”

“But that’s not what matters, Tar.” Var was smiling though her eyes were very bright. “He saw us and didn’t care. Keladry didn’t, and did. I often thought of her, wanting her strength, but I never imagined she thought of me.” She peered at him. “And it doesn’t matter if none of us know much about friendship that isn’t by blood — she’s teaching us that, too. We had a friend when we didn’t even know it.”

“But we’re so much younger, Var.”

Sam’s voice was small, and both Ilane and Piers leaned forward. She waved her husband to speak, a gesture that reminded Taren of Keladry.

“Not so much, Saman. Kel turns twenty-two just after Samradh, and you’re eighteen soon, I think?”

“In August. Var turns sixteen in October.”

“It’s seems a lot now, I know, and there are times when almost everyone feels younger than Kel. Very disconcerting it is to feel younger than your own youngest, too. But I do assure you that between adults age is no bar to friendship. And she has a capacity for friendship with those who are younger, as with those who are older.”

Ilane gave her husband a look. “Not the point, Piers. He’s not wrong about that, but what matters is the _not so much_. Kel turns older hearts without even thinking about it — look at Cavall, for goodness sake, and Turomot. She bent them into hoops, bless her. And as she can’t pass by a wounded inchworm without offering succour, the small she protects love her, as she loves them. What she doesn’t have is many friends close to her own age. It ought to be her yearmates, but Quinden was rotten right through, poor Merric and Seaver are dead, and Neal and Yuki can’t be here all the time. She wasn’t as close to Esmond. Owen’s a great help, and Prosper, but he looks up to her too openly, so frankly, you’re all a godsend, and probably literally so.” Ilane smiled. “But please don’t get pious about it. That really isn’t what she needs.”

Taren wasn’t sure his head would ever stop spinning, but something had settled in him, still astonished but no longer incredulous. He had known they were all connected in the song of stone, whatever the gods might do, and friendship was a better name for it than he had had before, however humbling. And surely Stone Mountain needed all the humbling it could get.

“No. That I get, Ilane. And I am honoured. I think.”

“That sounds like it, Taren. Don’t expect the confusion to go away any time soon. And welcome aboard.” The smile became a grin. “Stone Mountain, New Hope, and Mindelan, eh? There’s one in Henchard’s roving eye. Good for Kel, and all of you. Now, what  _is_ the matter with that silly mage Sternross?”

As the foolishness of rigid pieties was canvassed, Taren knew Ilane and Piers had both understood far more than they said about his doubts of himself, the damage done that kept revealing new aspects, but were leaving him to think it through for himself while offering their own approval. They must be as conscious as he was himself of the irony in finding The Girl’s parents substitutes for his own weak mother and bitter father, but as he saw Sam and Var respond to familial kindness and care gratitude swelled into affection. He loved his mother, but she had never been much help, and had nothing of Ilane’s shrewdness or easy warmth, let alone the capacity with a glaive he’d seen when she sparred with Keladry, while Piers was everything his father wasn’t and could never be — genial, formidably widely informed, diplomatic, and accepting of sorrow as well as joy.

A little later he caught Keladry heading to the Corral, and in the eerie, icelit space of the tunnel, conscious of the weight of stone above and the void stretching away on either side, managed to relay the gist of the conversation, with a rueful apology, half for not having understood even the possibility of friendship, and half for borrowing her parents. That made her laugh, echoes ringing, and she clapped his shoulder.

“You’re welcome, Tar. And Sam and Var.” He heard the affection in the diminutives. “Don’t take this wrong, because they’re right age doesn’t matter much between adults, but Mama’s been missing having just-grown children, I think. I flew the nest early, one way and another, we’re all married now except Avinar, who has to be dragged away from the City of the Gods, and none of the grandchildren here yet qualify except Lachran. Papa too, a little, but beyond genuine feeling for you all they’ll be thinking politics as well. The regranted fiefs are represented, because the King’s put Sir Douglas and General Alan on his Council.” She shook her head. “Lords Douglas and Alan now, but there are several of each. I wish they’d just rename Torhelm and Runnerspring.”

“Do they plan to?”

“They did last I heard, but can’t decide what. Anyway, the point is that Stone Mountain is represented only through you in the Council of Nobles, and Genlith unrepresented until Turomot’s done, which isn’t wrong, but isn’t good either. But you’ve already done a lot to earn your fief’s rightful place on the Council back, and Tortall can benefit as much as we will personally from mutual friendship. It’s  _not_ what a lot of people expected, but those worth respecting are very pleased about it.”

They came to the bridge, Keladry — Kel — greeting the guard, and Taren noticing with surprise that the man had been reading a history of times before the Thanic Empire. As they went on Kel gave him a sidelong look full of amusement.

“The book’s down to Irnai, who is fascinated by ancient history, and Kawit, who remembers lots of it and doesn’t mind sharing. They’ve drawn in quite a few people.”

“Only here.” He didn’t like to think what Stone Mountain would make of an ancient history reading group, with immortals. “Your mother said a friendship of Stone Mountain, New Hope, and Mindelan was one in Uncle Henchard’s roving eye.”

She laughed again. “And so it is. Quite right too. He and his kind of bigots are out of it for a generation at least, and by then Tortall will be a very different place. Scanra too, and Yaman.”

“For a … I hadn’t got quite that far. You say the gods think in the long term, Kel, but you do too.”

“It’s just momentum, Tar. It’s hard to start real change, but war made it easier, and once it’s underway you just have to keep pushing.” Kel shrugged. “I have to push three countries, apparently. It seems to be the price of riding the Timeway, so I’m not repining. Much. You just have to push Stone Mountain, and maybe Genlith.”

“Just.” Taren shook his head. “You say push, but it feels more like falling.”

“That too. So does war, sometimes.”

“Huh. But you’re so … you  _cope_ with it. I never know what’s going to happen here. Every day is different. And I realised something, talking to your parents, besides my own … damage, that underneath my anger with Father and Uncle Henchard, even with Joren, I was  _bored_ by them. The anger masked it, but I was bored stupid. And it wasn’t just the restrictions at Stone Mountain, or even their endless prating, but their utter predictability. Joren only ever surprised me by dying, and Father by abdicating. Were you bored by Torhelm and Runnerspring?”

“Oh yes. And I know exactly what you mean about anger masking boredom, though the two can pull in joint harness well enough — I found that out knocking all those knights Joren got to challenge me off their horses.” They reached lighter limestone and began to negotiate the zig-zags that layered the defences. “And I cope with what I have to, Tar, but without Dom and Tobe, and my family, I’d be lost. And we all carry damage. War does that. Your responsibilities are less than mine, but you’ve had far less help carrying them. And far less training. Don’t ever think you’re not doing well.”

She was silent for a moment, but as they came to the final straight, seeing daylight ahead, she stopped and put a hand on his arm.

“Why did you think yourself unworthy of my friendship?”

He blinked. “I … it wasn’t that. It never occurred to me as something I could offer. Sam, Var, and I only have one another. We weren’t allowed to mix with other children. They were _beneath_ us. And the only noble visitors were friends of Joren’s.”

“Faugh! Gods, Tar, that’s … well, I have a strong urge to go and beat your father with a stick. If you do wind up with a flock of stormwings at Stone Mountain you really should get them to visit him.”

“Maybe I will.” He couldn’t resist it. “I did think of building a tea-room for those using that shrine to the Goddess, and making the  _kanji for_  the scrolls _eldest, blondest, deadest_.”

“Ouch.” Kel’s hand went to her mouth in a gesture that reminded him of her mother. “Good one, Tar. Tobe will like it. And while I hate to agree with Nond about anything, I think you’ll do nicely, too. I must get on, but we should talk seriously about Var’s apprenticeship. She could take over the Guild Branch when she’s of age.”

“I’ll talk to her, Kel. And, well, thank you. For everything.”

“Not a problem, Tar.” She smiled crookedly. “What are friends for?”

She went on her way, and he walked back through the tunnel, talking for a while to the guard about the fascinations of history, before other tasks called. He hadn’t updated his journal in several days, and he owed his mother and aunt a letter. He owed his father _nothing_ , but he might inform him of the grace that poured from Keladry’s hands, all the same.

 

* * * * *

 

Arrivals abated for a while, but for several days Taren found himself too busy to notice much. Var was very happy with the idea of a formal Guild apprenticeship, if concerned at having to stay at New Hope alone when they left, but less so with the idea of running a branch, while Sam found the gift of Mindelan friendship had released a bubble of buried misery and anger. They all needed to talk, and did, setting aside old hurts and welcoming healing, but it took time. Miss Loesia was an unexpected help, between Var and Sam in age and wiser than any of them in dealing with memories and emotions, and though she was a little cautious of their rank another friendship took deeper root.

Taren had his own anger to deal with, but that had a fresher cause. Among mail that came in, including a dry acknowledgement from Duke Turomot of his letter about Queensgrace, he had at last received a reply from Svein about the counter-signed letter Kel had sent, and his drunken idiot of an uncle  _had_ received it, and ignored it as, his words to Svein, a damned impudence from a whore, a haMinch, and a halfwit king. The veteran, who had, as General Vanget recalled, lost an arm to a Scanran axe, had been living on the charity of his sister and her husband, contributing his thin army pension and helping as best he could on their farm. That had been righted, and a supplementary pension was being paid with arrears ; Taren also wrote the man a personal letter of apology. But there was still his uncle, and after some pacing he wrote three more letters, one he hoped would blister his uncle’s hands, and others to Svein and the army captain at Margaran, ordering that Lord Henchard be permanently forbidden wine or any substitute. It was the only punishment he could think to inflict without affecting anyone else, though the soldiers who’d hear the protests might not agree. He would cheerfully have ordered his uncle to work on the farm, but it would have to be enforced, an experience neither the veteran nor his family needed, and if flogging had a fantasy appeal he knew he would never willingly order a kinsman’s blood shed, however grotesque the kinsman.

More positively, he went to ask Domitan if he might speak with wounded veterans serving as auxiliaries in New Hope Second, to seek advice on how to help his own veteran. It turned out that one thing Domitan saw to for Kel was keeping a check on the labour to which the traitors not executed had been sentenced, a quest to make better replacement limbs than peg legs and hooks, and as their conversation broadened they took it to the Corral, drawing in others. Before they were done several men who had lost arms offered to write to his veteran of ways they had found of modifying things for one-handedness — a very interesting list in itself. It was more than he’d hoped for, but his anger remained, and when they were alone Domitan gave him a look.

“Let it go, Taren. It was wrong of your uncle, and stupid, but you’ve done all you can, as soon as you knew. Telling Svein to start the extra pension at once was right. Vanget will agree. And coming to ask for help today was smart.” He rubbed his chin. “I’ve been thinking we ought to have an official wounded veterans’ … what? Network? Club? A central pool of knowledge, anyway, to offer support and share ideas. But funding should be crown business, and this is a good example to use. The King won’t be amused to learn one of his countersignatures was roundly ignored — he grumbled enough when Kel made him add them. And if we draft a proper proposal, we could get plenty of support from Nameday guests to give it some force, and Prince Roald’s backing.”

Taren was happy to be involved, and found the extension from helping one who was his responsibility to helping many, regardless, was soothing. He and Vesker learned a lot about how the veterans at New Hope had come there, and how Kel’s practical approach to their employment had developed, driven, as Domitan admitted, by his own injury and the limitations it imposed. Stone Mountain also had men who’d lost arms or legs underground, and the veterans didn’t think it mattered how a loss was sustained, so there were more letters to write, to Svein, his mother, the fief office of safety and standards, and the Miners’ Guild, who were supposed to look after injured members but, he knew, did a poor job. That led to asking Mandrinal for advice, cheerfully given, with a shrewd suggestion that rather than asking for support individually they develop a briefing, and approach Prince Roald first to ask him to be not simply a supporter but a patron. Kel agreed, suggesting they also ask Duke Baird, who  _did_ concern himself with veterans’ welfare, and added letters to the Army Council and Council of Guilds to his tasks.

In consequence he spent two long days with Domitan — Dom, as Taren made a further effort to forgo formality as defence — and other veterans in the Corral, joined by Var, fashioning a crisply surprising briefing. What worked depended on how much of a limb had been lost, but there was always something. A man who had a hook for a left hand remarked that, useful as it was, he did wish he could change it to a fork when he ate, and Var blinked before asking if she might examine his hook. It was secured to a padded metal cup with a leather collar he could fasten to his forearm, and after peering at it, and staring into space for a moment, Var nodded.

“I can’t see why you couldn’t have one with a detachable hook, so something else could be swapped in. A screw-thread would work best. They take time and skill to cut accurately, but you’d only need a half-turn or so. What other tools would you want, sir?”

A list was generated, and smiths consulted. At the other extreme, a man missing his whole arm had found a sealed sleeve with some weighting was more use than a pinned one, helping his balance and giving him a way, however awkwardly, of fending off pushy cows when he’d worked on his parents’ farm. Legs were trickier, given Dom’s wound, but he was forthright about his brace, and it was again Var who pointed out that a peg-leg need not be a peg, but could be fashioned into a foot that would fit a shoe. Articulation was another matter, but could be referred to the traitors’ workshop, and a dispute about whether giving a peg the contours of a leg would be helpful or weight too much was cut short when Var, having slipped away, returned to say that Master Numair assured her he could shape froth as easily as water, and Var’istaan saw no reason why froth, shaped or otherwise, should not be petrified as well as anything else.

An intrigued Dom used his authority to commandeer a tub of soapy water and a beater from a startled laundress, used one on the other, and dragged Master Numair and Var’istaan briefly away from their current Guild project. The resulting object was not entirely like a leg, but weighed less than a pound and didn’t so much as dimple when two men stood on it. Thereafter the conversation went wildly sideways for a time, for the uses of a very light, very strong material were many — filler, packing material, support, protection — and before Taren had digested it a passing Kel, wondering what they were about, had stared, questioned briskly, and kicked the project up the Guild’s list of priorities, bringing in apprentice branch supervisors to consider the new material. She asked who had thought of this wonderful absurdity, gave Var a hug as well as a blinding smile, and said they’d have to talk about her proper share of profits, before heading to the gatehouse to deal with some issue bothering Captain Uinse. Taren then had a protesting Var to deal with, but as they walked back to the Corral to start on those who had lost an eye he hushed her by telling her how proud he was of her, and asking what she would do with money which would be hers alone.

“The worker is worthy of his or her hire Var, as you know very well. Your idea, your money. And if it gripes you, think how cross Joren would be to know you’ll have your own income and goldsmith-banker. You won’t have to ask me, or anyone, when you want to do something.”

Beside them Dom smiled, and so did veterans who heard.

“Wise words, Varia. I never wanted for anything at Masbolle, but one reason I joined the Own was to be my own man. Pay was a big part of that, and when I was … well, being an idiot, really, after I was injured, being a burden was itself a burden. Then I came here, had my world turned upside down several times over, and married Kel, who sees no reason money should be idle and manages to accumulate it in large quantities, so I’ve had to get used to having it, and using it. I thought of it as ease, and it is. But she thinks of it as a tool, or as power, you might say, and it’s that too. You’ve done something sharp and very useful today. Are you going to be as grumpy as Kel when people reward you for it?”

Taren rather enjoyed Var’s speechlessness, but gave her a hug of his own, and she soon became more thoughtful than surprised. The topic of one-eyed vision was unexpectedly interesting, for there were tricks that could help compensate — moving one’s head to judge distance, learning to turn the whole body to save on aching necks. Most would learn for themselves but there was no harm in a written guide, and, more lightly, eyepatches needn’t be black, and could be ornamental. Then again, basilisk glass could be used as readily for glass eyes as for windows, and colour finely controlled ; Dom was cautious, saying such fine work would eat basilisk time, already in high demand, but a man sporting a black eyepatch was tickled by the idea, and a conversation sliding into very odd notions of designs one might choose other than the appearance of a living eye was cut short when Button squeaked that the royal party had passed Greenwoods Fork, and the haMinch party Greenwoods Junction.

An immediate scurry began to make sure all was ready for the influx of horses, and additional grooms began to report. Abandoning work for the day they headed back through the tunnel with Dom, to find the Citadel equally bustling as a formal reception was prepared. Once washed and changed, Taren, Var, and Sam had nothing to do except be politely present, but were amused if mildly alarmed when Junior swooped down and inserted himself firmly into proceedings. Kel, in her red dress and talking to Captain Uinse, gave him a long look, but stooped to scratch his head when he booted her knee, and told him who was coming. When she began to straighten she avoided a snap of his beak with ease, told him in a stern voice to behave, and ignored him as he set about investigating everything, including them. Finding his own knee booted Taren knelt, wary of the beak, but was allowed to offer a scratch along the jaw before being abandoned for Var’s slimmer fingers. In mid-purr Junior saw Lady Skysong coming with Daine and promptly bounded over for what looked like a good gossip, not sparing them a backwards glance.

“Ungrateful little brute, isn’t he?” Daine was smiling. “Griffins are quite like cats that way.”

“Is he so very bad? We haven’t seen much of him.”

“He went to see the team building the new fort for several days and make a nuisance of himself. And yes, he is. At least he hasn’t terrorised anyone since he swooped on Numair. Well, not that we know.”

 “How did he come to be stolen?”

“I’ve never been able to find out, Varia. The parents won’t say, and Junior insists he was asleep and doesn’t remember. It might be true, but he was probably doing something he shouldn’t.”

“Huh. Doesn’t he have to tell the truth?”

“That’s one of the great questions, Taren.” Numair joined them. “You’d think, but basilisks are immune to the rock-spell, and Junior certainly has feigning innocence down to a fine art, so I tend to think not. Still, lying by omission is more likely than by commission, I fancy.”

“They allowed the song-lies.”

“They did. I’ve wondered about that, but I don’t know how much it mattered that the lies were about dragons. And Kit’s no help.”

“No.” Daine grinned. “She just says no-one should ever lie about dragons, and if the griffins had refused she’d have scolded them.”

“Would they heed her?”

“Who knows? But they heed Diamondflame and Rainbow, and know Kit’s very advanced for her age, so maybe. Oh, and she said she’d spoken to you about Yaman, and you had a helpful story, so my thanks for that.”

They discussed the dragonet for a while, seeing her gossip session with Junior expand to include young stormwings, as well as Amir’aan and another small basilisk Daine said was Bel’iira. As the crowds grew Taren was impressed by their self-discipline — not military order but neatly efficient, using all available space and keeping paths and areas towards the front clear. Piers and Ilane arrived, shepherding children and grandchildren with practiced efficiency, and Sir Anders caught his eye.

“With nine of us, Mama developed a mother-hen tactic when she wanted us all in line behind her and no messing. It still works, as you may notice.” He grinned. “Kel’s inherited it. You should have seen her when the King and Council were here, for the Treaty, and she wanted them to stop blathering and do something organised. It was priceless.”

“I can imagine, Sir Anders. Well, I suppose command mode is a bit different, but one doesn’t argue.”

“No. Mother-hen mode is less direct, but just as effective. It’s odd, you know, because Kel was never a bossy child. She just did for herself whatever she thought needed doing. But she’s become the finest commander I’ve ever seen.”

“The finest leader, Lord Imrah said.”

“Did he? Huh. I served under him in the Immortals War, and I’d put him second only to Kel. It’ll be good to see him.”

“I didn’t know he was coming. Oh, with Squire Lachran, I suppose.”

“Yes, though I think he’d have come anyway. It’s something of a siege reunion as well as a nameday, you realise? Kel didn’t go south last Midwinter, and there’s been all the Yamani events since then. This latest news, as well.”

A look from Ilane had them hastily falling silent and taking their positions as the royal party began to enter, observing the ritual of the Honesty Gate. As all were personal guests Kel and Dom were welcoming them without her council, and Taren’s rank put him, with Sam and Var, after the Mindelans, while her Guard stood in a block on the shelf. He was close enough to hear exchanges of greetings, and after Piers’s words watched the Crown Couple carefully, seeing Princess Shinkokami’s stiffness as Kel embraced her, the apology in Prince Roald’s double handclasp, and the comfort of Dom’s hand resting briefly against his wife’s back. Kel gave the Princess an unfathomable look, but moved on smoothly ; her warm embrace of Sir Nealan and Lady Yukimi, carrying their happily babbling daughter Ryokel, with Dom’s more restrained welcome for his cousin, were expected, but the equal warmth for Duke Baird and (to Taren’s ear) slight wariness of Duchess Wilina less so. Dom’s family were also in the party — his mother, Taren recalled, was Duke Baird’s sister — and seemed mostly at ease with Kel, greeting her as cheerfully as she did them. Both Mrs Weaver and her husband were also embraced, and the gaggle of Protector’s Maids individually greeted with firm handclasps. A smiling Lord Imrah had kept Squire Lachran waiting with a semblance of patience, and Taren had to suppress a smile at the young man’s pained alarm when his aunt firmly embraced him too, commending his discipline and warning him she’d be testing his sword- and glaivework, before clasping Lord Imrah’s hand. Sir Alanna and Baron George brought up the rear, and after Kel had greeted him she and Sir Alanna simply grinned at one another.

“Kel, Kel, what are we going to do with you? I leave you alone for five minutes, and you’re at it again.”

“Tell me, Alanna. Gods thick and fast.”

“Well, as I gather the Black God was fast the thick must be Mithros.”

“Oh hush. You’ll give my poor Papa conniptions. And not really. Just getting his priorities muddled. Again.”

“Un huh. The Goddess says to keep up the good work. Oh, and Lindhall and Bonedancer send apologies. He got his foot stomped on by an ungrateful mule he was treating, and Bonedancer wouldn’t leave him. I’m not sure he quite understands namedays, and just clattered his beak a lot when I said he could ride with us if he wanted.”

“Oh well. I’m sorry about Lindhall, and so will Numair and Daine be. Is he alright?”

“Cross with the mule, but healing well enough. It’s just that bone takes time.”

“So it does. You know Buri’s pregnant again, so she and Raoul also sent apologies, though I think he wants her to come for the birth.”

“He does. Who wouldn’t, with that spiral here?”

“There’s that. Belian and Marra declined with thanks, as they have a grandchild arriving any day, and Wyldon hasn’t come because Vivienne’s not been well, so Margarry and Owen are missing too. He was upset, but will give oath by spellmirror.”

“Rats. I wanted to see him and Neal lined up. Do you know what’s wrong with Vivienne?”

“He was rather red and wouldn’t say, the old coot, so I suspect she’s climacteric. We should get on, but two things.” Kel’s voice dropped, and Taren strained to hear. “Beware Master Sternross, because he’s a pious idiot, you’ll soon want to throttle him, and I’m  _that_ close to booting him out. And talk to Numair about the ghastly nonsense Unferth was trying — he thinks he’s understood how blood magic works to bind spells to earth, and that in itself might be useful.”

“So noted, and will do, Kel. I want to talk to Numair anyway. But I don’t think you’ll be doing much getting on just yet — Vanget and his party will be here any moment.”

“Oh right. On we go, then.”

The Weavers and Protector’s Maids were being shown to their rooms by Miss Loesia and assorted younger children, but newly arrived royals and nobles joined the receiving line. Taren found himself in a polite exchange with Prince Roald, but after proper enquiries about Princess Lianne, who was looking forward to seeing Galla and meeting Prince Loup, and appropriate congratulations on their part in rescuing stolen girls, the Prince asked with a genuine curiosity how they’d been getting on.

“Well, thank you, Your Royal Highness. I’ve been shadowing Kel, and learning a great deal. Sam’s training with Captain Uinse and improving his Scanran by leaps and bounds, as are my guard squad, and Var’s set for a Craftsbeings’ Guild apprenticeship.”

“Really? Excellent. My congratulations to you too, then, Lady Varia. If Kel takes a stick to the Council of Guilds I shall be cheering her on. So will Father.”

Taren took the opening. “I suspect that day will come, Your Royal Highness, but in the meantime Domitan and I have discovered a cause in common, where guilds are concerned.”

“Oh?”

“I’m annoyed with the Miners, because they’re supposed to look after members who are injured but do it very badly, while Domitan wants to beat the Metalworkers.”

“As do we all.”

“Just so. But we’ve come up with a scheme to hit both birds with one stone — an official association of injured veterans, as a means of mutual support, with access to Craftsbeings’ Guild work — and we wanted to enlist your patronage. Perhaps you’d have a word with Domitan and His Grace of Queenscove at some point this evening?”

“Certainly. It sounds like something that should be done anyway. I’ve been pushing Father to increase veterans’ pensions, but with the war over he wants to refill the treasury before we drain it anymore. He does have a point.” The Prince eyed him with interest. “You’re much more relaxed than you were in Corus, Lord Taren.”

“I expect I am, Your Royal Highness. Here I wonder what I’m going to learn today, not whose hostile or merely impertinent scrutiny I’m going to face next.”

The Prince grinned. “I hear you. The wonder that is Kel, eh? Still, it doesn’t relax everyone. There’s a Master Sternross who’s very agitated.”

“He wrote to _you_?”

“To Father, wanting the Craftsbeings’ Guild forbidden from what he called dangerous magical practices and experiments.”

“He’s an idiot.”

“So we thought. Any particular sort?”

“The pious, rigid, and deaf sort. He thought Kel offended propriety and piety alike by ordering men who helped work death-magic buried without ceremony, and sees no difference between melding death- and blood-magics in murdering children, and melding basilisk and ogre powers to build first-rate roads. The principle’s the same, after all.”

“You’re right about those roads. Remarkable. What principle?”

“Don’t do anything new, and don’t mix anything up.”

“Ah.  _That_ sort of idiot. Why hasn’t Kel thwapped him?”

“She has, verbally, twice. Wuodan did too. I said he was deaf.”

“So you did. Stone deaf, evidently.”

Taren blinked, suddenly wondering again about stone and its songs, but had to store the thought as haMinches began declarations under the Honesty Gate. Lord Ferghal was bigger and burlier than his brother, with very bushy eyebrows and a stronger burr, but the resemblance was clear, and both were smiling broadly, genuinely glad to see Kel and offering congratulations on a swift rescue. They had brought Lady Demadine with her husband, Gavin haMinch, and their children, while a tall, thin figure, austere in grey, turned out to be Lord Avinar. He returned Kel’s embrace, but looked drawn.

“I’m sorry to have to impose on you, Keladry, but Dean Charter didn’t have much choice. The tales have all the senior divines flapping.”

“So I’ve gathered, Avinar, and family is never an imposition. I dare say Master Sternross has been stirring the mages’ pot as well.”

“I believe so, but I don’t think anyone takes much notice of him.”

“How unexpectedly sensible.”

Lord Avinar smiled. “He doesn’t matter, Keladry. The gods do.”

“Yes, but let’s put that aside until we can talk properly after Samradh. Mama’s going to beat you if you don’t join in the celebrations while the family’s all here.”

Order was lost for a while as Mindelans and Masbolles greeted one another, but Kel kept a grip on her other guests, and after a while caught her mother’s eye. Together they shepherded everyone to her guest-wing, Sir Anders grinning at him and mouthing ‘See what I mean?’, which Taren did. When he had arrived he’d been struck by the number of guest-rooms, but the wing was now packed to the rafters, and it seemed impossible to turn around without encountering one or another of Kel’s nephews and nieces, all equally excited and inquisitive. He, Sam, and Var took refuge in the common-room, where Piers and Ilane were talking with Lord Avinar, Sir Anders with Lord Imrah and Lachran, and Sir Alanna and Baron George with General Vanget and Lord Ferghal. She waved them over, introducing them properly to Lord Ferghal, and Taren took the chance to tell General Vanget about his uncle’s dereliction and what had been done to set it right. That led to Dom’s idea, which everyone liked, and Var’s petrified foam, which raised Lord Ferghal’s eyebrows and made Sir Alanna grin, but induced thoughtfulness as its properties were grasped.

“Yet another useful innovation.” Lord Ferghal nodded decisively. “Light and strong. Ought to insulate, too, I’d think.”

“We’re still testing it, my lord, but it seems to.”

“Better still. You’ve a sharp mind there, Lady Varia. I know full well Kel’s basilisks will petrify anything, but I’d not have thought of foam. Good for you.” He smiled disarmingly at them all. “And it’s good to know Stone Mountain has someone sensible in charge at last. No offence, but your grandfather was impossible, and your father not much better.”

“None taken, my lord. We never knew our grandfather.”

“Sounds harsh, I know, but you didn’t miss much, Lord Taren. Same pride as your father but hot-tempered rather than icy, and couldn’t agree with himself, never mind anyone else. Good old days be bothered — these good new ones are much better. Tell me how this thing with the wounded’s going to work, if you will. We’ve enough who’ll be interested.”

Taren did, as far as they’d worked it out, and when Dom brought Prince Roald and Duke Baird to join them he grinned.

“Sounds as if you’ve done the job without the briefing, Taren, though we’ll do that tomorrow. And we have two happy patrons.”

Duke Baird was open with congratulations also, and Taren found he liked the man considerably. Conversation became general as the room filled, groups breaking and reforming as people entered. Princess Shinkokami and Lady Yukimi were apparently talking to Kel while she fed the twins, and Taren wondered about that conversation, but found himself under intent scrutiny by Sir Nealan. With a sense of irony he offered one more apology for any and all ills done by Joren.

“Fortunately, Sir Nealan, Kel and everyone else seems willing to forgive me my relations, except perhaps Peachblossom, who harbours suspicions, I think. I hope you won’t.”

“I won’t hold anyone’s relations against them, Lord Taren, and I refuse to agree with that brute of a horse about anything. Besides, Joren never apologised for anything, so you beat him hollow already.”

“I would if I could, Sir Nealan, but that’s down to the Black God now.”

The smile was charming. “And acquiring Kel’s attitudes too. Do make it Neal, please. Nealan is my mother or Yuki in a mood. And Sir Nealan is Alanna in a mood, which is enough to scare anyone.”

“I imagine it is. Taren, then. Does any protocol survive here for more than half-a-mark?”

“Not much, gods be thanked. I suspect you’re heartily sick of being asked, but do tell me about Kel’s latest adventure. I’ve only heard second-hand snippets.”

Taren was, but did, and found others listening until the summons to dinner saw younger children returned to maids, and Miss Loesia led them all round to the main entrance. The table was even bigger but still crowded, and the meal a whirl of excellent food and extremely varied talk. Mrs Weaver and her husband were there, with Mrs Spinner, but not other Protector’s Maids, and Master Sternross seemed also to have been banished to the messhall, so far more diners were Mindelans than not. It might easily have become family and outsiders, but save Lady Demadine, talking to her sisters, including Kel, conversational groups were mixed. Sam and Var, on his left, were caught up with Sir Inness, Dom’s father and brother, and Lords Imrah and Ferghal about the plans for the Vassa and (he blinked, overhearing) the possibility of making boats from petrified foam, while he found himself talking, or mostly listening, to Piers and Lord Avinar, who was explaining the anxieties besetting the City of the Gods.

“It was bad enough last year, but at least signing the Peace Treaty was an event warranting divine endorsement, even if Keladry did invite the High Ones to dine and dance.” Lord Avinar grimaced. “But this business in Yaman! A private matter, in essence, but she calls on the gods, and they … I can’t say obey, but it seems like it.”

“It wasn’t private, Avinar. Yaman might have fallen into civil war if your sister hadn’t acted as she did.”

“But that was a side-benefit, Papa. You said yourself that Keladry acted on the dragonet’s behalf, and the Guild’s.”

“She did, Avinar, but it was for Yaman as well. Lord Sakuyo trusted her to do right by him, and His Imperial Majesty, and she did. I don’t see why it should matter so much. Surely the plain facts that she asked and the gods granted are what theologians should be thinking about?”

“Yes, but the clear implication is that the gods care more for her than for our senior divines. Add that to Holloran saying we should all defer to her knowledge of gods, never mind a score of novices asking if they can transfer to New Hope, and  _everyone_ is uneasy.”

Taren couldn’t stop a snort of laughter, and father and son both looked at him.

“I’m sorry, but I couldn’t help imagining what Kel would do to those novices’ heads if they were allowed to transfer.”

Piers smiled. “There’s that. And Kel doesn’t need any more responsibilities, Avinar, so you can tell Dean Charter that’s not going to happen. As to the senior divines, mmm, you needed to see Kel with Lord Sakuyo to understand, but the long and short is that she’s become his friend, however theologically uncomfortable that may be.”

“And the Black God’s, I think.” Taren shrugged under the joint stare. “He called her _daughter_ , and assured her the souls of those poor girls would have his special care. Perhaps Lord Mithros’s too, for all her anger about Chaos-taint. Wuodan says she offers solutions when she calls on him to do something, and he finds it easier to agree than argue.”

Lord Avinar shut his eyes for a moment. “And there we go, Papa. No offence, Lord Taren, but there are so many theological problems with that I can’t begin to list them.”

“Are there, Lord Avinar? Perhaps you could give me an example?”

“On the word of a hound, the highest god finds it easier to work miracles than to argue with a mortal, and you see no problem?”

“Wuodan’s a divine hound, and Kel’s a very unusual mortal drawn into divine affairs by the Timeway, so no, not really. It’s a wonder, surely, but not a problem. Though with Wuodan I’m never quite sure when he’s being ironic.” Taren waggled a hand in the universal gesture. “At first I thought he was … exaggerating for effect, let’s say, but I’ve come to think he just calls it as a hound sees it, and the effect amuses him. Then again, she teases him back, sometimes.”

“And it just gets worse and worse. One is  _not_ supposed to tease divine beings, even if they are four-legged.”

“According to whom?”

“What?”

“Who says the divine must not be teased?”

Lord Avinar stared, and Piers laughed softly.

“I believe Taren has you there, Avinar. I told you Lord Sakuyo clearly  _enjoyed_ bantering, and if it’s acceptable to him I don’t see why it shouldn’t be to Wuodan. And who are mortals to object?”

“But it is  _not_ respectful, Papa, and the temples  _cannot_ endorse disrespect to the gods.”

Taren blinked. “Your definition is too narrow, Lord Avinar. Do you suppose all respect must be deferential?”

“Of course it must. How can it be otherwise?”

“Readily. I respect your father greatly, and in matters of protocol defer to his rank, but that does not mean I must or should defer to him in all things, and to do so in matters of Stone Mountain would be quite wrong. Nor does it mean I cannot laugh with him.”

“Papa is many things, Lord Taren, but not a god. Your analogy cannot hold.”

“I don’t see why not. Are we not all the gods’ children?”

“Well yes, of course we are, but it’s not the same. We owe parents our respect and love, but we owe the gods our worship.”

Taren took a breath, thinking Kel was going to have her work cut out with this sibling. “On paper, perhaps, Lord Avinar. In practice, life is more complicated, I find. I have little respect left for my father, and believe we owe the gods our actions, not simply words and prayers. I’ve done a great deal of praying this last year and got nowhere, but a bare month after coming here I heard two gods speak, affirming actions Kel had taken and responding to her call for their action. So while I mean no offence, I’ll bet the gods prefer Kel to your theological superiors because they find her a great deal more useful as well as more amusing.”

Piers nodded, suppressing a smile. “I suspect so too, Taren. Certainly in Yaman it was action that was wanted, and here, with this ghastly shaman. And with Lord Sakuyo, at least, amusement cannot be denied.”

“No. It  _would_ have to be a trickster that Keladry’s most involved with.” Lord Avinar shrugged discontentedly. “I’ll pass what you say along, but it won’t be liked.”

“I dare say not. Have you spoken to Lachran yet?”

Taren was tempted to ask why senior divines not liking something the gods approved of would matter to anyone with sense, but thought better of it. Lord Avinar was, if not in Master Sternross’s league, nevertheless as offended by what he supposed impropriety as discombobulated by what he found he couldn’t call impiety, but had the sense to allow his father’s change of subject. The rest of the meal was without incident, and with the cheese board circulating Kel rose to give a brisk outline of events tomorrow, the eve of Samradh. Adult dragons and other immortals were expected soon after dawn, as were any number of liegers, and Guild business would begin at once, with presentations and Lady Varia’s admission as an apprentice, followed by tests for those seeking Journeybeing status, which would take all morning at least. All were welcome but in no way obliged to observe, and warned that if as many dragons came as Kel expected space would doubtless appear very disconcerting, but it was harmless. (Taren blinked, wondering.) Lunch would be in the messhall, with a briefing about aid for injured veterans after, before any remaining tests and consequent promotions. Finally, as the tests involved magical ability as well as knowledge, children — Kel’s gaze swept round the table, picking out nieces and nephews — needed to be careful as well as quiet. Piers rose to endorse that, and with a flickering glance at Lord Avinar and a nod to Dom’s father added his thankfulness for the blessings of family safely gathered.

With an early start due, and older children beginning to yawn, people didn’t linger. Sam and Var were both tired, and headed for bed, but having eaten very well Taren felt a need to walk. He paid brief respects at the shrines, thinking that if the City of the Gods were to receive the attention its divines craved they’d get a rude shock, and made a slow circuit of the alures, speaking for a while with a sentry who’d been a frequent sparring partner for Sam. Kel was making her own nightly circuit, more briskly in the other direction, but he took the chance to ask if she knew Master Sternross had complained to the King.

“I’m aware, Tar, but thanks for the thought. Jonathan told me about the letter, and Master Sternross won’t like the reply Roald brought.”

“But you’ll still tolerate him?”

“He’s entitled to complain to the King, and it’s no odds to me. He’s a bore and a nuisance, but sending him packing would add to Avinar’s problems. Besides, he wrote that letter before Wuodan growled at him, and he’s been quiet since. Why ruin everyone’s day with a needless row?”

“True. Are the candidates nervous? I half expected them to be pacing about the green.”

“Somewhat.” She grinned. “Kawit sent them off to rest an hour ago. And I’d like to follow suit, so I must get on.”

Taren continued his own circuit, enjoying the night air and letting his mind drift. Reaching the Gatehouse he saw a rider being admitted, but there was no indication of any alarm so he merely nodded to the man, beginning to turn away but swinging back to look harder. Add a good few pounds, and maybe. The man returned his gaze, eyebrows rising.

“Sir Voelden?”

“Yes.” The voice was wary. “I’m sorry, have we met?”

“Many years ago, and I was only named to you, not introduced. Taren of Stone Mountain.”

He offered a hand, and Sir Voelden took it, searching his face before offering a short bow.

“My lord. I recall Lord Burchard naming you, and I knew you were here, with your siblings, but I would not have recognised you.” He gave a crooked smile. “I confess I’m surprised you recognised me.”

“I didn’t at first, but you were one of the people I’d hoped to meet here. Saman and Varia, too.”

“I was? May I ask why, my lord?”

“Certainly, but perhaps elsewhere.”

Where they would not be overheard by soldiers. Sir Voelden nodded.

“I should see to my horse.”

Taren followed him to the stableblock, and helped him unsaddle and rub the beast down, learning that he’d been overseeing some rebuilding and re-organisation at Tirrsmont.

“Forgive me, but don’t you find it awkward to be there?”

“Sometimes, my lord, but it’s interesting. Most of my father’s possessions were distrained, to pay his fines, and I never liked the way he had things arranged anyway. The place can’t stand empty, and what to do with it was a sore puzzle until Lady Kel suggested a central office for mining in the fief as a whole, to free up space here.” The crooked smile returned. “And being in my old apartments, knowing they’re the only part of it I can still claim, is salutary.”

Taren thought about that, finding his respect for the man increasing, and when the horse was settled led the way to the benches around the flagpole, at the centre of the green.

“We wanted to meet you for two reasons, Sir Voelden. To apologise, and I do, for any actions of my late half-brother and father that contributed to the ills that befell you. And to thank you, which I also do, for your example, which gave me hope that I too could face, forgive me, an inherited disgrace and find redemption.”

There was a silence.

“I’m sorry if I’ve offended you.”

“No, no. I just … I don’t know what to say, my lord. I had no expectation of any apology, and I cannot say Joren led me astray. I was astray already. Your father I respected until I heard of his abdication.”

“Oh? Why did that lose him your respect?”

“Forgive me, but it was a coward’s choice.”

“Yes, it was, however I am glad to be rid of him. He was not kind to the three of us, you understand.”

“No. I recall being puzzled by his attitude to his younger children. He seemed to attend only to Joren.”

“Just so. We were by-products of his need, not wanted, until I became so with Joren’s death.”

“That was very wrong of him.” Sir Voelden looked austere. “I know what it is to have a selfish and neglectful father, though as heir my position was different. As to offering an example … well, thank you, my lord, for unexpected and heartening thanks. It was bitterly hard at first, for I was deeply ashamed and could no longer lie to myself, nor find oblivion in my cups, and the respect I found I could not grudge Lady Kel was a burr under my skin. But the work she gave me was a solace, and … well, she was very … kind, though the term is not adequate.”

“I have seen grace pour from her hands, Sir Voelden, and not only the Black God’s.”

“Yes. She was very gracious. Is. She gave me back my honour.” There was a third crooked smile. “She would tell me I took it back for myself, but I know a gift when I receive one, as I know your gifts this night, my lord. Perhaps you would introduce me to Lord Saman and Lady Varia tomorrow?”

“I will be happy to, Sir Voelden. And if our thanks help you, we are glad of it, for you helped us, however unknowingly.”

They talked of easier things for a while, Var’s apprenticeship drawing surprised questions, and Sam’s training martial approval, before Taren excused himself to bed. Sir Voelden was the last of those to whom he had thought he should offer apologies, and completing that list was an unexpected boon, auguring well for the future. And tomorrow there would be dragons, stormwings, new darkings, and all manner of beings assembling in witness and celebration, not least of Var’s formal admission to the newest and most important guild in Tortall. Uncle Henchard would spit when he heard that news,  _and_ have to deal with it in an enforced sobriety that might make even him confront his shame. Taren slid into sleep a contented man.


	8. Chapter Seven -- The Theatre of Gods and Dragons

**Seven : The Theatre of Gods and Dragons**

_New Hope & Galla, 20 June 464 HE_

 

Taren was up before dawn, but still found Kel pattern dancing before the shrines. He waited to pray, admiring by runelight her fluid grace and what seemed, however paradoxically, a stillness within her accelerating motion. When General Vanget and Lord Ferghal came to wait with him, both already in fine clothes, he hesitantly mentioned his thought, speaking softly, and Vanget nodded.

“Quite right, Lord Taren. Good eye. Only true weapon masters, what the Yamanis call _sensei_ , have it. They call it being centred, I think. Shang call it being within your own skin, which amounts to the same thing, I dare say. Either way it’s striking, isn’t it?”

“Very. And beautiful. Such absolute balance the world moves around her while she stands still.”

“Hah. Yes, I like that. Wyldon has it sometimes, and Alanna, with the sword. She’s the last person I saw defeat Kel at anything, and not by much, but with the glaive Kel’s got it in spades.”

They watched as Kel finished up, glaive blurring in the last moments, then moving with exquisite, steady slowness in a wide sweep before she came upright with it by her side. Having mopped her face with a handkerchief and redonned her fine tunic, she nodded to them.

“Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“Not at all, Kel, and we’re well repaid. You’re in very good form.”

“Yaman beat out any cobwebs, Vanget.” She grinned. “You should try sparring with armoured spidrens. I wanted to see what Wyldon would do against twin blades.”

She followed Taren in kneeling briefly before each shrine. So did Piers, who had joined them with Lord Avinar, but the younger man knelt only to Lord Mithros, head down, and Taren saw Kel gaze at him for a moment, face still. His own prayers were the usual thanks and hopes for safety and well-being, but he increasingly found his devotions spiced with a lively curiosity about gods and their ways. Was Lord Mithros yet being scolded by the Great Goddess and Black God? And was there anything distinctive about divine senses of humour and irony, beyond their scale and the seeming value of pain? Were gods really waiting to see what Kel would do next? Certainly they cared for the Mortal Realm and its denizens, but Wuodan made them sound like spectators at a play, wanting their money’s worth from actors who had not been allowed to read the script. Rising, he saw false dawn lighting the eastern sky, and the icerunes brightening with it.

When they headed to the messhall they left Lord Avinar kneeling, and Taren thought he hadn’t noticed their departure. Piers shook his head, murmuring to Kel, who nodded, expression touched with rue. It struck Taren that there was more than one reason she did not openly claim the status as celebrant Archdivine Holloran had recognised, and in a curious way sidestepped it, even while going straight to the source, but had to file the thought as she dropped back, catching his eye.

“Taren, I meant to tell you that Kuriaju and Var’istaan finished the Firestone Staff, so I’ll be receiving it today, and offering you the Guild’s formal thanks for a princely gift.”

“Oh. Good, and the Guild’s very welcome, Kel. Do I need to reply?”

“Need, no, but a few words would be good. I don’t want to get sidetracked onto the songs of stone, but they shouldn’t be forgotten.”

“No. I hadn’t anticipated having to address dragons. Any advice?”

She grinned. “Stand straight and be polite but direct. They’ll be in good humour today, I hope, but Diamondflame and Rainbow are not much for small talk.”

“Not a problem. I’m not so keen on public speaking myself.”

Lord Avinar caught up with them as they reached the messhall, a herd of guests, including Sam and Var, behind him, and the high table was soon crowded. It was Lady Ryokel’s birthday, and at the ripe age of two she had a self-possession Taren thought remarkable, enjoying a few presents from parents and grandparents but clearly aware time did not allow more, and eating without fuss. He had given her one of the educational toys brought from Corus, held back against just such a need, for Sam and Var as well as himself, and thought with amusement that he was more impatient to see her open it than she was herself.

Many eating were families who’d already walked some distance to attend, and Taren idly wondered how the cost of feeding so many liegers on eves as well as feast days was handled ; he knew the fief’s soil was blessed — every bite said so, flavours rich and deep — but food and labour still cost. It was, however, good for morale : he heard cheerful greetings as people squeezed up to make room, and noticed Miss Loesia with some older children shepherding not only Vorinna, Fréawaru, and Hilde but all the illegal settlers. They had no finery, but were in new clothes of decent quality — another cost Kel had absorbed, he’d bet — and if some of the men still looked askance at almost everything, the older women were clearly coming round to their daughters’ way of thinking. He said as much to a chewing Sam, who nodded, and with a tilt of his head indicated Master Sternross, entering with a very sour look on his face — the King’s letter, presumably, though even as Taren explained he wondered why, if Kel had spoken to the King about Master Sternross, Prince Roald had needed to ask him about the man? Might the letter not have been delivered if he’d expressed approval, or doubt about Kel’s actions? He’d given an honest opinion, and didn’t mind being used as a crosscheck, but wished he’d realised sooner.

Kel rose, commanding silence with a resonant ‘Oy!’, noted the presence of the Crown Couple and other nobles, gave a version of the day’s schedule that still included a friendly caution to children, and another brief account of what dragons could do to space and why not to worry about it. Nor was it wise to address them unless invited or in true necessity, but should any dragon address you, the answer was  _At once, my lord_ or _lady_ , as the case might be. And while people were welcome to come and go as they wished, Guild proceedings should be respected.

“The candidates may be immortals, people, far older than any of us, but they are still young for their kinds, and as nervous as anyone facing a public test with elders observing — think about how _you’d_ like people to behave, if it was you up there having to concentrate. And enjoy the day. It’s one that matters to our future. Now, dragons tend to be prompt, so those who want a good view should be moving, but let me get my guests out first, please.”

Thus chivvied they went, though Kel paused briefly to speak to Vorinna, Fréawaru, Hilde, and other rescuees, telling them that Duke Baird, the expected stormwing queens, and even dragons might want to ask them about unterrorising. All nodded, however their families looked alarmed, but there was no chance for more as Captain Uinse stuck a head through the door.

“Lady Skysong says incoming dragons, Lady Kel, and lots of ’em.”

“Right you are, Uinse. I told you all dragons were prompt. Let’s go.”

While they were eating immortals had gathered, spidrens, ogres, and basilisks too numerous to count filling the terrace on both sides of the shrines, wooden perches for stormwings among them, though some preferred rooftops. The adult griffins and Junior were there, with a dozen hounds, though which Taren could not tell. Soldiers were keeping the whole area between shrines and green clear, and the playground railings had been removed ; seats for Kel’s personal guests were set out on one side, and three chairs stood before the shrines, one in the middle and two to one side, the other being occupied by Kawit. A gasp from Var made him follow her gaze up to see a great spiral of descending dragons, already low enough that their true size was apparent, surrounded by sparks that after a moment he realised were stormwings, steel feathers catching sunlight. He had to drag his gaze away to heed where he was going, and there was some milling over the protocol for seating, cut short by Prince Roald who with his Princess took the centre of the front row, gesturing Domitan and Tobeis to sit by him, and Their Graces of Queenscove and Mindelan to flank them. Lord Imrah with Sir Alanna and her husband took the remaining seats in the row on one side, and Taren, Sam, and Var shared the other with Neal and Lady Yukimi, Lady Ryokel on her lap. Mindelans, Masbolles, and Maids filled rows behind as arriving stormwings heeded an imperious gesture from Queen Barzha, on a perch, and landed on perches beside her — four glass-crowned queens and their consorts. He glanced at Neal as he heard a long sigh of relief.

“They’ve washed.” Neal spoke softly. “Kel said she’d insisted, but I still can’t quite believe in clean stormwings.”

Having met only the reformed Stone Tree Nation Taren didn’t have that problem, and wasn’t thinking of stormwings as dragons began to land, wings cupping air and silver claws scoring the petrified mud surface. From their colours and central position Taren could guess at Lords Diamondflame and Rainbow, and swallowed at a vast figure that had to be Lady Icefall’s father, Lord Jadewing, but there were dragons of every hue, from palest white to rippling blue-black. And space _was_ distorting, mortals assembled on the green and beyond tilting in all directions, the flagpole swinging around the sky until it abruptly straightened, the only upright in a panorama that looked more like a carelessly tossed quilt than the main level. There were cries of alarm, and it was deeply disconcerting to see, but as Kel promised no-one seemed to take any harm. When the last of, count them, twenty-three dragons was safely down Lord Diamondflame looked round, gave what might have been a draconic _tsk_ , and did something that amounted to shaking the quilt out, causing more cries but leaving it neater, if still hillocky, before settling again, intent on Kel. She stood by the central chair, Masters Numair and Valestone beside her, and raised a hand.

“Lord Rainbow, Lord Diamondflame, my lords and ladies, Your Majesties, Your Royal Highnesses, and all guests, be welcome to the Citadel of New Hope.”

Her voice carried effortlessly, and Lord Rainbow inclined his head. Taren had known from Lady Skysong he was blind, but opaque eyes were still a shock.

_Thank you, Protector. As you see, many have felt it right they should witness what goes forth this day._

“And all are welcome. Guests and liegers, observing in courtesy, know who has come.”

In what was, Taren decided, a calculated display, Kel named all the dragons, giving dignities as parents of apprentices where appropriate, and ending with the parents of the four seeking promotion. Then she asked Queen Barzha to introduce her visitors, promising attention to their requests once the formal business was done. Turning, she gestured to those flanking her.

“In today’s tests I preside as Guildmaster, and have charged Dean Kawit Pearlscales, with Masters Numair Salmalín and Idrius Valestone, to act as examiners. Does any member of the Guild object to their serving thus? Or any who observe?”

Her gaze was on Lord Rainbow.

_We honour your choices, Protector, but will test those candidates who are dragons ourselves. Once made Journeydragons of the Guild, they will be permitted to travel in the Mortal Realms as they will, or are asked to do, and we would be sure of their fitness for such liberty._

“So noted, Lord Rainbow. All dragon apprentices remain under the ultimate authority of the Dragonmeet. I ask only that any failure be fully explained to the candidate, that he or she may know what must be done to pass on a future occasion.”

_Certainly, Protector. Any concern will be made clear._

“Thank you. And so we begin. My first, most pleasant duty is to acknowledge an unexpected and very generous gift. The Craftsbeings’ Guild is younger even than its youngest members, and has had little time to accumulate traditions or insignia of office, as other guilds have, but today I can as Guildmaster say that we have made a fine start.”

Master Kuriaju stepped forward, proffering a long velvet bag Kel took, with a deep nod.

“Lord Taren of Stone Mountain, of his grace, gave the Guild a famous and unflawed ruby, the Firestone, that has been set in a staff carved by the skill of ogres and petrified by the power of basilisks. Lord Taren, is there aught you would say before your gift is revealed?”

It was sooner than he had expected, but he found himself on his feet, striving to project his voice.

“Only this, Guildmaster — that I have been told of the songs of stone and fire by Journeyogre Elimiaju and the honoured Bard Olimiariaju Earfiller, and that the Firestone acquired by my forebears has long sat dark and unheeded in a vault. It seems to me right that it shine and sing again, and so I give it freely, that it may serve you and your successors with and in all honour.”

He had not intended quite that phrasing, but his heart pulsed as his tongue spoke, and somewhere far above a hawk screamed. The dragons’ attention became palpable, and Kel cocked her head, expression austere.

“Lady Shakith hears you, Lord Taren, and I thank you on behalf of the Guild, myself, and all who shall follow me in this office.” He sat again, trembling slightly, and Var clasped his hand. “Master Kuriaju, would you or any who helped make the Staff say aught at this time?”

“There is no need, Protector. The Staff will speak for itself.”

Kel nodded, and drew the Staff from its bag. Taren just had time to see that the shaft bore carvings and had been petrified in many colours, shading into translucency where slim brackets clasped the Firestone, before Kel held it aloft and the great ruby found runelight, flaring into dazzling life. Lady Ryokel gave an _ook!_ of surprise, murmurs swelled among the crowd, and as Taren blinked it seemed to settle but still glowed fiercely, pulsing as Kel turned it. Her voice held serene authority.

“So the Firestone Staff has spoken, welcoming light, and the charge I lay on all who follow me in office and bear the Staff is to welcome light always — in transparency of dealing, that all the Guild’s trade be fair and seen to be so ; in research and experiment, sharing what is learned that may benefit others ; and in uprightness and clarity of purpose, open to the regard of all Three Realms. I pray to all gods that so mote it be.”

Very many voices echoed the invocation, and chimes sounded, full and sweet. Kel turned to the shrines, bowed, and turned back.

“My second duty is the admission of new members, as apprentices or such higher rank as shall be deserved. Lord Rainbow, have more darkings come, as it was said they might?”

_They have, Protector._

The senior dragon rose, extending a paw almost to Kel’s feet, and a wash of black flowed down from his neck, pooling on the stone before shimmering and wriggling into scores of blobs. Kel surveyed them with a smile, Ebony peering from her collar, before kneeling.

“There are more of you than I expected, little ones, and all most welcome. Thank you for coming. To know how each would wish to serve, and to what service each is most fitted, will take time we cannot now spare, but come to my hand, one by one, and tell me your names.”

It was a bizarre but oddly impressive process, darkings swirling into a line and leaping to Kel’s hand to squeak a name she repeated for all to hear. Neither she nor any darking dawdled but with well over a hundred of them it took a while ; Taren could hear younger children fidgeting behind him, but all immortals and all of the Guild were sharply attentive — properly so, as he had been taking oaths of loyalty. As a last darking leaped down from her hand Kel rose, calling forward Dom, and from somewhere Daine, Irnai, and Lady Icefall. Daine looked amused, and Lady Icefall interested, as at Kel’s gesture darkings perched thickly on mortal shoulders and along a dragon back.

“Does any member of the Guild here present have any reason why these darkings I have named should not be admitted to the Guild, their oaths to be given and ranks to be determined when time serves?” She gave it a few seconds. “Then they are so admitted. Go now with those who will welcome and look after you, obeying the orders of Button.”

From Dom’s collar Button gave a commanding squeak, as loud as Taren had ever heard from a darking, and tiny heads swivelled, nodding, before mortals and dragon made careful ways back to their places.

“Thank you for bringing them, Lord Rainbow. They will be of great help as the Guild goes forward.”

_You are welcome, Protector, and all were eager to come. The name of the Guild resounds in all the Realms._

Kel quirked an eyebrow, but bowed. “I am happy it should. There is one more candidate for admission, as apprentice to Masterminer Kuriaju. Lady Varia of Stone Mountain, Master Kuriaju, please stand forward.”

Taren heard Var swallow as she rose, and stood himself, though he didn’t accompany her as she went to stand beside Master Kuriaju on the step before Kel.

“Lady Varia, you came here to learn how to benefit the miners of your brother’s fief. Do you now seek admission to the Guild as an apprentice of your own free will?”

“I do, Guildmaster.”

Var’s voice was clear, despite nerves Taren could hear, and his pride in her rose.

“Master Kuriaju, you have agreed to sponsor Lady Varia and oversee her teaching. Do you do so of your own free will?”

“I do, Guildmaster, and have no doubt of her fitness to be an apprentice.”

Kel’s gaze rested on him. “Lord Taren, as Lady Varia is not yet of age, I ask if you as her legal guardian are willing that she should be admitted to the Guild?”

“I am full willing, Guildmaster, and wish Varia every success and joy of her membership.”

“So noted, Lord Taren. Does any member of the Guild here present have any reason why Lady Varia of Stone Mountain should not be admitted to the Guild, as the apprentice of Master Kuriaju?” The same few seconds were allowed. “Lady Varia, give your oath.”

Var swallowed, but again spoke clearly. “I, Varia of Stone Mountain, do solemnly swear that I will honour and uphold the charter of the Craftsbeings’ Guild of New Hope, and will obey the lawful commands of its officers, and will be diligent in all my duties.”

“Your oath is heard and accepted, Lady Varia, and I, Keladry of New Hope and Mindelan, Guildmaster, do reciprocally swear that the Guild will honour your rights, protect and teach you, and ensure that you are paid fairly for your work. Be welcome among us, now and always.”

Var stepped up to be embraced, embracing Kel hard in return. Disengaging, Kel turned her and laid a hand on her shoulder.

“I also formally acknowledge that Apprentice Lady Varia has already made a valuable contribution to the Guild, suggesting the trial of petrified foam as a material both light and strong, suitable for many purposes. As with existing acknowledgements of those who contributed to the creation of icelights, petrified webmesh, and MATs, financial arrangements will be made to reflect that contribution.”

Taren had been watching Var, seeing her blush and the pride when Kel named her as Apprentice, but was aware dragons’ attention had sharpened again at the mention of petrified foam. Whether it was just a draconic equivalent of ‘Petrified _foam?_ ’ or something more he wasn’t sure, but several gazes tracked Var back to her place beside him, and might make whatever they wished of his and Sam’s embraces and murmurs of congratulation before they took their seats again. A stormwing perch had been placed on one side of the step below Kel, and Miss Loesia stood beside her carrying a tray with four small boxes on top of a bulkier package.

“My third duty is again a pleasant one, of reward. As all Guildmembers know, and most who observe today, our journey to Yaman was not without unhappy incident. An attempt on the life of Journeydragon Lady Skysong was prevented only by a warning given by Lord Sakuyo, and in the ensuing mêlée three Guildmembers gave extraordinary service, above and beyond duty, as did Lord Tobeis. Lady Skysong herself, magnificently keeping her wits, acted in my defence, killing one who would have killed me, and Journeybasilisk Amir’aan, defending her as was right for an elder, killed two who would have killed Lord Tobeis as he also fought others. Journeystormwing Cloestra also fought, ingeniously slaying two of our foes. By the grace of many, the guilty have been punished as fully as may be, but the time of punishment did not permit reward, and that comes now. Journeydragon Lady Skysong, Journeybasilisk Amir’aan, Journeystormwing Cloestra, and Lord Tobeis, please stand or perch forwards.”

Taren had half-expected Kel to say _hoick’em_ somewhere, and saw a glint in her eye as she spoke of perching forwards. Dignity was maintained as a very pink Lady Skysong, Tobe, and Amir’aan climbed, and Cloestra flapped from a perch by Queen Barzha to the one on the step, but Kel’s voice was touched with solemn amusement.

“How to reward immortals is something of a puzzle, and the utility of medals has been questioned. But if they are primarily symbols, recognising valour, few will take the Guild’s recognition lightly.” Kel gracefully went to one knee, and as Miss Loesia crouched beside her opened one small package, deftly extracting a gleaming medallion on a silk band. “Lady Skysong, please bow your head.”

The dragonet did, a deeper pink than ever, and Kel set the ribbon about her neck, then took something else from the box.

“You know, Kit, wearing that will not always be convenient, so there is a simpler indication of its award.” She fastened an embroidered velvet collar around the dragonet’s neck, adjusting it so the rondel it bore was centred. “Wear either or both with pleasure and right pride, knowing the gratitude and respect of all for great courage in adversity, on that day and all days since. Rise now, and face your elders and peers.”

Lady Skysong did so, and as one dragons rose and briefly inclined their heads, sending her a pink it was almost painful to see.

_I have said it before, Skysong, and will say it again. You grace your clan, and your valour is now rightly known._

_Thank you, Ancestor Rainbow. I treasure your words, and all dragons’ approval._ Lady Skysong’s mindvoice had a quaver but was determined. _And there is one thing I would say to all. The Guildmaster speaks of others’ valour and skill, never mentioning her own. It is true god Sakuyo warned her, and I thanked him for it, but it was her skill that saved me. She deflected the crossbow-bolt, taking harm in doing so, and in fighting the mortals who assailed us opened herself to deadly hurt only in seeking to defend all. And when the fighting ended, my welfare and Amir’aan’s were her first concern, though wounded herself. To receive this honour from her is deeply gratifying, but I find it very annoying that I cannot reciprocate, so I wish to place on record my formal thanks to Guildmaster Keladry, and my belief that she deserves a medal far more than I do._

Kel had herself gone an interesting shade during the encomium, and gave Lady Skysong a distinctly fishy eye, but that did not stop the dragons rising again to incline heads, nor others following suit, immortals and mortals alike. Taren found he had risen without thinking, and saw Prince Roald and Princess Shinkokami had done likewise ; he sat again, hearing Neal’s grunted approval.

“About time.”

Kel returned a bow, and straightened, shaking her head to clear it. “You’re welcome, Kit. And thank you, all. I could not have done less.”

And for Kel, Taren thought, that was simply true, however astonishing the doing. The ceremony was repeated, first for Amir’aan, who enjoyed a chorus of basilisk hisses and added his own thanks to Kel, his fluting whisper boosted by Numair, stooping to lay a hand on the back of his neck ; and again for Tobeis, who declined a velvet collar but stood very straight during prolonged applause. Then it was Cloestra’s turn, and after dealing with medal and collar Kel acquired another glint in her eye as Master Kuriaju and a second ogre came to stand behind the perch. Cloestra glanced round, head cocked with curiosity.

“Something more, Protector?”

Kel’s smile was close to a grin. “You were clear a medal would only be a nuisance in flight, Cloestra, and fetching as the collar is, it’s not quite stormwing style.” Cackles of agreement came from perches and rooves. “But I remember you once lamenting that wings without hands made any kind of dress impossible, and as people keep insisting, impossibilities don’t sit well with me. So with Queen Barzha Razorwing’s let, Master Numair’s aid in creating a magical fastening, and the embroidery skills of Mrs Spinner, I have for you a tunic.”

She opened the bulky package, taking out a length of leather, and passed it to Master Kuriaju, who slid it over the perch.

“Feet through these holes, Cloestra, then extend your wings slowly.”

It took some careful shuffling along the perch before Master Kuriaju and the other ogre, avoiding Cloestra’s wings, could lift the front and back, adjusting slightly to (Taren realised) make sure Cloestra’s breasts were snug, and fasten them at her shoulders, ogre height making it easy. When they stepped away the back could be seen, Taren’s breath caught, and silence deepened, for the embroidery was magnificent — Cloestra herself in a full dive, vivid against black leather with wings back, hair streaming, eyes alight, and claws extended to grasp the dome of a skull. Steel feathers and claws were wrought in silver thread, flashing in the light, and above the image, a semicircle in gold thread, was the legend **STONE TREE NATION**.

“If you tap the fastenings with your chin they open, but perhaps you might wait to experiment.” Kel’s voice was complex, though amusement ran through it. “Kuriaju has a mirror so you can see the back.”

Where the ogre had produced it from Taren hadn’t seen, but he held it up, angling it, and Cloestra turned her head.

“Oooh!”

The exclamation and obvious pleasure released a buzz of talk, and Taren didn’t hear the next exchange between Kel and Cloestra, but when she folded her wings and turned to face the crowds his breath caught again. The front was simpler, **Craftsbeings’ Guild** lettered high on one side and **Cloestra** on the other, but the effect was considerable. One did grow used to stormwings’ nakedness, and of necessity ignored it, though it was hard to forget entirely, tending in both males and females to the pendulous, but the tunic was cut to lift Cloestra’s breasts and generated a considerable cleavage, shown in the scooped front. And modesty was not the point, for the tunic transformed her appearance, setting off the collar with its rondel. Stormwings were stormwings, and all Taren had spoken to impressive in their own way, but clad in black leather Cloestra acquired a potent dignity to bring all up short. That it genuinely rewarded heroism Taren didn’t doubt, nor the affection in the considerable effort Kel must have made to create it, but it served a greater purpose, pushing transformation of the Stone Tree Nation. This was not an incomprehensible being, existing only to terrify, or soil casualties of war, but a ranking and decorated member of Guild and Nation, a dignitary, and he had no doubt other stormwings were deeply envious. Queen Barzha, still and intent on her perch, had an expression suggesting she agreed, and the visiting queens and consorts seemed entirely taken aback, the looks on their faces almost comical. Less expectedly, Lord Diamondflame was, Taren would have sworn, both amused and admiring.

“And so the Protector strikes again.” Cloestra’s voice was full and rich. “I may have to reconsider the value of medals.” Stormwings cackled as Cloestra turned on the perch. “Thank you, Protector. You are ever surprising us. It’s quite the talent.”

“You’re very welcome, Cloestra, and I try. Immortals are wise with age, but a long life may mean deep ruts, and getting out of them is good.”

Glancing round, Taren thought most immortals ruefully agreed, and stormwings cackled again. Kel stood back and Cloestra returned to her original perch beside Queen Barzha, silver and gold on her back glittering while her wings were unfurled, and the power of the tunic became even clearer once she was among the others.

“And so to our major business today, testing for Journeybeing status. Dean Kawit?”

The opal dragon nodded to Kel.

_Thank you, Guildmaster. There are today five candidates who seek promotion to Journeybeing of the Guild, and as these are the first such examinations I note that their form has been the subject of much debate. Differing kinds have differing abilities, physical and magical, so testing cannot be uniform, yet there is much all who would Journey must know — the rules of the Guild, in letter and spirit, the mortal ways of its dealings, and the abilities of all members that may be called on in need. These will be tested, and the particular skills of each candidate as is fit. Does any member of the Guild have any question about our procedures? Or any immortal observer? Then I call Ogre Apprentice Ventriaju to stand forward for examination._

Ventriaju was not full-grown, Taren knew, reaching perhaps seven foot, but being very skilled with a sling had fought actively during the siege, and was felt to have shown great maturity. He was smartly turned out, though his pockets bulged, and if clearly nervous stood straight and answered crisply. Kel began with the Guild’s charter and purpose, handing off to Master Valestone for matters of finance, shaped around a fundamental commitment to benefiting members according to their work, not middlemen or masters. Kawit interjected questions, and took over to ask about the Guild’s Magical Seminar and publication of results in its biannual journal. Because Ventriaju was Kuriaju’s nephew, Masterminer Petrin was called to attest that his knowledge of mining was all it should be, his conduct underground always conscious of safety. Then it was Numair’s turn.

“Apprentice Ventriaju has no magical ability, but as a Journeyogre may face situations where commanding others’ magic is required, and so must know what each kind can or cannot do. So, some hypotheticals.”

In swift succession he pitched questions at Ventriaju, who answered steadily about what he might do if he were to find an injured mortal, see an unsafe structure, learn of an impending crime, or realise an imminent danger to mortals over whom he had no authority. Much depended on whether he had a darking or spellmirror, but it was clear he could think well about how the various resources of the Guild could be combined and exploited, and Numair nodded.

“Good. Now, there is also, or should be, a practical test. Apprentice Ventriaju has contributed greatly to our study of spidren webbing, working tirelessly to improve webbing slings.” The mage smiled. “The mathematics are really interesting, as is the magical theory, but I’ll spare you. Suffice to say that elasticity is mostly helpful but sometimes not, and Apprentice Ventriaju worked with different threads braided with webbing to map that. Whether the current mix is the best possible no-one knows, but it’s very good, and an apprentice work of great distinction. We _were_ going to have a demonstration, but there doesn’t seem to be room, unless, Lord Rainbow, we might have a range of some two-hundred yards along the front of the terrace?” Numair pointed to two soldiers who waited with a stand and a box of clay balls. “These men would need to be at one end, with room to stand safely aside, and Apprentice Ventriaju at the other.”

_That presents no problem, Numair Salmalín._

And it didn’t. Space swirled, scooping up soldiers and apprentice, and not only separated them by the required distance but lifted them a dozen feet so all could see. A suddenly distant Ventriaju bellowed thanks to Lord Rainbow, and the soldiers set up the stand, placing three clay balls along it and standing as far back as they could. Numair seemed abstracted, staring at the soldiers with narrowed eyes, then gave a nod as sparkling black fire spread along the sides of the space, thinning into translucency to allow sight and curling around the soldiers. Dragons peered with interest.

_That is well done, Numair Salmalín._

“Apprentice Ventriaju is very accurate, Lord Rainbow, but generates considerable force, and no test should allow true harm to be done in nervous error. Go ahead, Ventriaju, and show all what you can do.”

Ventriaju had sling and stones in those bulging pockets, and soon had the sling whirling. Taren was too far away to see his release, but the effects were evident when the leftmost clay ball exploded into dust, and the stone was caught beyond the targets by Numair’s magic to spill onto the raised ground, roll sideways, and with a bizarre series of bounces zig-zag down to thump onto the main level almost at the base of the steps. Two further shots destroyed the other targets, and only with the last did Taren catch even a glimpse of the stone’s passage, though the whipping heads of dragons showed keener sight. Applause broke out as Numair nodded to Lord Rainbow, and space recontracted, Ventriaju and the soldiers (looking slightly green) offering bows and thanks to the dragon, who nodded.

_You are welcome, Apprentice Ventriaju, and to be commended. The sling is an ancient weapon, and to improve it so greatly a rare feat._

“So we thought also, Lord Rainbow.” Numair’s hand waggled. “Mortals of course lack ogre strength, limiting range as well as force, but where a simple sling will discourage a fox, or a wolf, a webbing-sling might give even a bear or elk painful pause. And for all who dwell where raiders, bandits, or slavers may come, such slings would be a potent as well as a cheap addition to their defences.”

Kel nodded. “Indeed, and though cost and so profit will be low, I believe we will sell many. Arrangements will be made so Apprentice Ventriaju receives proper benefits, with Master Numair, who oversaw the work and contributed critical insights, and Quenuresh, who was generous with her spinnerets and knowledge of webbing.” Kel turned to offer Quenuresh a bow. “Does any examiner have further questions to ask? Then shield us a moment, Numair, while we confer?”

A sparkling black shield enclosed all the examiners, but only briefly, and Kel smiled warmly at Ventriaju.

“A fine performance, Journeyogre Ventriaju. Congratulations.”

Ventriaju’s grin was a joy to see, and there was applause and ogric foot-stomping as he shook Kel’s hand and received a brooch to indicate his new rank before facing everyone and bowing. Master Kuriaju was waiting, obviously proud of his nephew, and clapped him on the shoulder before escorting him to a place among the other Journeyogres.

_I call Dragon Apprentice Starcrest to stand forward for examination._

The dragons watched closely as Starcrest, whose crest was indeed an extraordinary white, swooped from the clifftop to land in a fairly confined space. Questions from Kel and Master Valestone tackled the same issues from fresh angles, Numair dealt with magical theory, and Kawit with practical demonstrations. Starcrest had good control of fire and light, could heat stone, hover, and lift objects magically ; she did not yet control spatial magic, but could displace herself instantaneously from one place to another, and did so to the North Tower roof and back, dragon heads swivelling to watch arrivals and departure. They seemed struck by that ability, but when Kawit asked Var’istaan to stand by and Starcrest to create an icelight with water from the tank into which the spring splashed they really became intent. Taren thought Starcrest took a deep breath before starting, but magic leapt to gather water, bring it to her, and shape it into a torus, before freezing it solid. Var’istaan angled his snout carefully and petrified it, then Starcrest grasped it with one paw and did something that had dragons’ heads shooting forward. Ignoring them, Starcrest held the stone circle aloft, turning it in the sunlight now just clearing the fin for a long minute, and holding it low again spread a circle of magic above it to block the light. The torus could be seen to glimmer faintly, and letting the magic vanish she held it out to Kawit, who took it and looked closely.

_Well and properly done, Starcrest._

Taren heard nothing more, but after a moment Kel, Numair, and Master Valestone all nodded, and Kawit surveyed the assembled dragons.

_We are satisfied that Dragon Apprentice Starcrest is fit for the rank of Journeydragon of the Guild. What further tests would you make, Rainbow Windheart?_

_I would examine that icelight, Kawit Pearlscales._

It floated across, and Lord Rainbow lowered his head towards it, Diamondflame and others doing likewise. Magic played around it for a long minute before heads withdrew.

_That is an entirely spidren way of using magic._

_It is. Only when the spell is set into petrified ice in that manner does the necessary interference occur, that sunlight is captured. Numair taught us to imitate the spidren way, and set the spell as a web._

_It is a very odd way of proceeding._

Taren had no idea which dragon had spoken, until Kawit’s head turned.

_It is an effective way of proceeding, Moonwind. Would you have a dragon unwilling to match a mortal mage in so simple a matter?_

_Would you have a dragon imitating a spidren?_

_If the result is a working icelight, why not? Especially when the experience of learning to shape magic in a way that does not come easily to dragons teaches a great deal about how to use it exactly as needed. Consider the ground before you._

Something magical happened, and the dragons all stared, though at what Taren hadn’t a clue.

_I have learned from Quenuresh how to web space as I desire, which has its uses, Moonwind. It is more elegant and complex than the parallel spell. It is also interesting to do. You might try it._

_We all might, Kawit._ That mindvoice had to be Lord Diamondflame’s, and Taren saw it hit the crowd. _What matters is that Starcrest is a great deal more mature than she was when she came here. Open yourself to Rainbow, Starcrest, that we may know how you have grown in the Protector’s care._

Starcrest stood very straight and multicoloured magic enveloped her, all dragons watching intently. Kel had an expression Taren thought carefully neutral, and he began to wonder if she might wind up scolding dragons as readily as gods. As the magic vanished dragon heads turned to Lord Rainbow, and though he heard nothing it was clear there was a volley of conversation going on, cut short when the elder dragon spoke audibly — or whatever a mindvoice was.

_This is not the time or place for philosophy. Does any dragon say Starcrest is not fit for the Guild rank she seeks? No? Then we are satisfied, Protector, and you may proceed._

“Thank you, Lord Rainbow.” A certain dryness shaded Kel’s voice, but vanished as she looked to the waiting candidate. “And congratulations, Journeydragon Starcrest, on a fine performance and your new rank.”

Starcrest’s relief was evident, and she nodded to Kel and the other examiners. There was no obvious place for her to watch from, until her parents shifted slightly — or created some more space — and presumably said something complimentary, for she was a little pink as she settled in it. Then Kel called Apprentice Dragon Sharpclaw, and the process repeated.

Allowing for varied questions it was similar, but the task Kawit set was to make a hoick’em, rather than an icelight, and though Lord Rainbow looked at it closely the dragons’ additional testing was only his magical interrogation, and Sharpclaw passed, as did Longtail and Opaleyes in turn. There was a moment in Longtail’s questioning when Kel fixed him with a look and reminded him that while it was bad enough for an apprentice to scare a mule-train, even if led on by someone nearly eighteen centuries younger — she shot a severe glance at Junior, who preened — for a Journeydragon it would be an offence warranting loss of rank and more. Quite how a dragon looked sheepish Taren wasn’t sure, but Longtail managed it, avoiding his parents’ gazes, and gave what looked very like a sigh of relief when he passed, after a somewhat longer magical examination than the others. There might also have been words from his parents as he settled between them, but besides Lord Rainbow no dragon said anything audible until with lunchtime looming the last test was done. Observing was hungry work, with the emotions involved, but the dragons did not have mortal desires in mind, all eyes remaining on Lord Rainbow, whose head was turned to Lord Diamondflame. After a moment those opaque eyes seemed to rest on Kel.

_Protector, as Cloestra said, you have a talent for surprise. Many doubted these young dragons could be ready for the rank they have earned, for they were far from it when they came here. We knew Skysong had matured astonishingly in the Mortal Realm, but she has been here since she hatched, and allied with the Godborn ; and knew also that other immortal young had done well in your care, yet what is that to us? Had we not thought these would prosper here they would not have been allowed to come, but we had no expectation of such rapid progress, and the means are as surprising as the outcome._

“The praise is due to Kawit, my lord, for she has borne responsibility for their tutelage and discipline.”

_Kawit has done much, it is true, but it is your example, with your praises and reproofs, that have driven them so sharply forwards._

“I would hope I played a part, my lord, but surely what has mattered most is simply having a purpose.”

_More than a part, Protector, but you are not wrong. We closed the Dragonlands and shunned the Mortal Realm with good reason, but did not appreciate quite how much it would cost us, as even Moonwind admits._

“War is always hardest on the young, my lord. And Lord Diamondflame will recall darking Trick’s explanation of why it wanted to come to the Mortal Realm — ‘Fun. Doing. _Helping._ ’. I would offend none, but to mortal eyes the truth is that all your young were bored with idleness, and sapped by boredom. They did not have to think beyond or for themselves, and the help they are asked to give here benefits them as much as those who receive it.” Kel hesitated, then shrugged. “In future, you might think about proper schooling. Expecting all to learn for themselves doesn’t seem to be working so well.”

_Such a mortal practice is not our way, Protector._

Kel’s head snapped round to face a pale dragon. “Then, with all respect, Lady Moonwind, perhaps your way needs to change. I once said to spidren Vorgitarl, when he lamented the strains of the new path Quenuresh found for her kind, as I say to you, the Timeway has turned and we must turn with it or fall from it. You who can see it must know that. And though this rock cannot, I know there are eddies of the roil still to pass. Do you think the Dragonlands exempt?”

I _do not, Protector._ Diamondflame’s mindvoice was very controlled, but Taren heard satisfaction beneath it. _And Quenuresh and Kawit are correct that although you cannot see the Timeway as we do, you sense it with a clarity I have never before known in a mortal. You stood at the heart of its roil, and it knows you yet. Would you be willing to advise the Dragonmeet on the forms such schooling might take?_

Kel’s face was very still, and Taren abruptly realised that even with Lord Diamondflame there was a degree of teasing towards her that came from a desire to enjoy her responses, or to be agreeably surprised. Even for dragons a long life meant deep ruts, and ninety centuries was long indeed. Was that also the gods’ attitude? It felt uncomfortably like children prodding a small but aggressive creature with blades of grass to see what it would do. The stillness of Kel’s face was broken by the slow rise of one eyebrow.

“I would be honoured to do so, my lord, when time serves, but would point out that if any adult dragon were to undertake sustained observation of the Guild’s work here, much would become clearer. As Lady Icefall is likely to be a candidate for Journeydragon next year, perhaps Lord Jadewing might care to consider it.”

_Icefall is nearly ready for this too? But you had her carrying darkings, Protector._

Kel turned to the great green dragon, whose tail had twitched straight with surprise, causing several score observers to duck.

“Do please mind your tail, my lord. Mortals break very easily. And the two go together. Newcome, those darkings need watchful care, and Lady Icefall is one I can trust for that. Lady Skysong has taught her much.”

_Oh. I must talk to them, then. And I don’t mind coming if you want, Protector, but I don’t know if I’m the right dragon for the task. Others are cleverer than me, and would learn more._

“I think they would learn other, my lord, not more, and that few dragons are as kind or as patient as you, valuable qualities in this task.”

_They are?_

_I believe so, Jadewing, and we can talk of this at our leisure._

Diamondflame’s amusement, if that was the word, had deepened, and Kel had a slight smile, leaving Taren to recall her words about Jadewing being rather literal-minded, and wonder how many levels she and the dragons were really speaking on. Lady Icefall was the youngest dragon apprentice, barring Lady Skysong ; was it partly that she missed her father more severely than others?

_As you say, Diamondflame._

Lord Jadewing settled again, tucking his tail carefully around him, and Kel turned back to Lord Rainbow.

“Is there anything else you would say to all, my lord?”

_Only that we thank you for your care of our young, Protector, and of all dragons._

“All are most welcome, my lord, and it has been a joy to see the young prosper. The only formal business that remains is a request from the stormwing queens to discuss Guild provision of eggwifery, but I believe you and Lord Diamondflame are interested in the new ability to unterrorise that those of the Stone Tree Nation have found.”

_We are, Protector. The changes we saw in Yaman were startling, and today has not lessened our surprise and interest._

“Well and good, my lord, but I propose to hold that discussion after lunch, if you are willing. We mortals need our sustenance, and I believe some among you would be glad of time to speak with sons and daughters, grandsons and granddaughters.”

_They would, and you direct proceedings here as you will, Protector. But we wish to speak with you, of our young and the service to which the Black God called you of late. Diamondflame and I would also meet Taren and Varia of Stone Mountain, for mortal concern with the songs of stone and fire is a new thing, and Shakith a goddess to be heeded. Perhaps we might do that now._

Taren felt himself stiffen with shock and swallowed, hands seeking Sam’s and Var’s. He had been trying not to think about hearing a third god’s voice, telling himself the prophecy concerned Kel and her successors, not him or his, while another part of his mind was exulting, for if his intuition about giving the Firestone had proven so right, he was walking with the gods, however it might prove deeply unsettling as a reality. Now simpler apprehension gripped him, for Lords Rainbow and Diamondflame were so very … large.

“Surely, my lord. Excuse me a moment.” Kel hoisted her voice into command mode, slicing through a buzz of conversation. “Alright, people, that’s it. Proceedings are only adjourned, because there are talks to be held this afternoon, but they’re not for observers, so thank you all for coming to witness the Guild’s various awards, and Lord Taren’s gift, and enjoy your lunches, now serving in the messhall. Oh, and don’t worry about any distorted space — just walk towards the messhall and you’ll get there safe enough, even if your stomachs are lurching a bit.”

She trotted down the steps to speak to Dom and Tobe, still festooned with darkings, and Taren heard a soft snort from Neal.

“Even if. Only Kel.” Green eyes met his. “Well, that was entertaining. Am I wrong, or did Kel order the dragons to set up a school system?”

“Um, I wouldn’t call it an order, Neal. A strong suggestion, perhaps.”

“Strong as in having lots of teeth.” Neal shook his head. “She did something to Moonwind in Yaman, and doubled it today. But you should go say hello to Rainbow and Diamondflame.” He grinned. “It’s quite the experience.”

“I dare say. Prince Roald seems to want time first, though. And Sir Alanna.”

“Paying respects. They met in Yaman, while Kel was off with the Wild Hunt, scooping up Stone Fools to be.” Neal laughed, Kel glanced their way, and Lady Yukimi deftly elbowed her husband. “Oof! I only speak truth, my Yamani petal.”

“You speak disrespectfully, husband, as often.” Lady Yukimi was half-smiling, though, and Lady Ryokel stifling a giggle. “And I should offer my congratulations, Lady Varia, Lord Taren. An heiress of Stone Mountain joining the Craftsbeings’ Guild is most interesting news, and the tale of the Firestone Staff already most wonderful.”

Lady Yukimi offered an elegant curtsey, returned by Var while Taren and Sam bowed.

“Thank you, my lady. I did enjoy Lady Ryokel’s response to the Staff, and she has been very well behaved.”

“She’s a good girl.”

Lady Yukimi beamed, bouncing the happy child on her hip, and Neal grinned again.

“Daren’t offend her godsmother, more like. And very sensible of her, too,” he added hastily. “We have an exceptionally intelligent daughter.”

“Because she is blessed with my brains, not yours.”

“Just as she is blessed with your nose, not mine, my Yamani clover blossom. Hyacinth? Sward of Lord Sakuyo’s sacred petals? Oof!”

“Please ignore my husband’s so improper rudeness, my lords, my lady. He is quite drunk on seeing Kel bowed to by dragons. Not that it was not pleasing, of course, but he is not being helpful, and I believe Roald and Cricket are done, and Alanna only formally introducing her husband and Lord Imrah. You should make your way over.”

Taren found himself disinclined to argue, and half-wondered if two large dragons were not the easier proposition. He gathered his wits.

“So we should, Lady Yukimi. Sam, Var.”

At some level Taren knew Sam had been steeling himself to be left behind, for he had not been called on during the morning, and Lord Rainbow had not named him, but would have none of it. They were three, always, not two and one. He shepherded both siblings forwards, thinking with amusement that he was Kel’s student and Ilane’s foster son in more ways than one. He couldn’t hear what the dragons were saying, but on the mortal end conversation was more polite than substantive, Lord Imrah having met Lord Diamondflame during the Immortals War. Dom had vanished, no doubt to divest himself of darkings, but Kel and Lady Skysong were waiting, and after congratulating the dragonet, impatient to greet her grandsire, Taren took the chance to look at the Firestone Staff in Kel’s hand.

It was bigger than he’d envisaged, a genuine staff, not a sceptre, and the ogre carving was intricate, bands of geometric patterning separating images of the Guild’s kinds — ogre, basilisk, spidren, stormwing, darking, dragon, and mortal, with all together in the uppermost, just below Kel’s hand. Where she gripped it there was a plain section, lightly crosshatched, with a second two-thirds of the way to the shod tip — just where you would need the other hand to grip if using it as a weapon, and he could imagine Kel’s practical insistence that a staff be usable as a staff, whatever else it might be. The Firestone still glowed, but not with its earlier dazzle, and he wondered if it had always had latent magic or if some had been set in it, and if so when. Had that prompted his intuition? He would have asked Kel, but as Sir Alanna, her husband, and Lord Imrah gave bows and stepped back, she grinned at Lady Skysong.

“Go on, Kit. You’ve been patient, but it’ll have to be brief for now.”

Whether the dragonet heard the last of that he wasn’t sure, for she had already bounced into Lord Diamondflame’s welcoming paw, and they were nose to nose. It was a touching sight, but his attention snapped back as Kel spoke.

“Well, it’s kind of you to say so, my lord, but it seems only common sense. In any case, you wanted to meet those of Stone Mountain. Allow me to present Lord Taren, Lord Saman, and Lady Varia. Tar, Sam, Var, Lord Rainbow Windheart, eldest, who governs the Dragonmeet.”

“My lord.”

Taren and Sam bowed, and Var curtsied.

 _Taren, Saman, Varia._ Who knew what those opaque eyes saw? _Mortals are being very interesting in the Time of the Protector. It was ogre Elimiaju who told you of the songs of stone and fire, Taren?_

Stand straight, Kel had said, so Taren did. “It was, my lord, in Corus. He knew I hoped for better relations with, ah, the Protector, and wondered if the resonance of my fief’s name with the patterns Bard Olimiariaju had found was more than coincidence.”

_It may be so. Such a roil as has just passed is long in the making. I understand you are at present the youngest lord of Tortall?_

“I am, my lord.”

 _Then I would think you were drawn here, where the youngest of many kinds gather._ That was a new idea to Taren. _Did any being prompt you to the gift of the Firestone?_

“No, my lord. I saw it when I took stock of my inheritance, and after my conversation with Journeyogre Elimiaju the name struck me, and the gift seemed right. I did not know it had any magical property, though.”

Lord Rainbow extended his head towards the Staff, seeming to smell it, and Kel lifted it to rest across her hands, holding it up.

 _Thank you, Protector._ The head withdrew. _It has taken in the magic of the sunbirds from the light of the icerunes. It is interesting and unusual, but fire ever calls to fire. It may be that Diamondflame—_

He broke off as a call came from the door of Kel’s house.

“Lady Kel, king on the spellmirror, urgent!”

“Excuse me.”

Still holding the Staff Kel took off at a run, many gazes following her, and Taren felt his gut tighten. His Majesty and Kel spoke regularly, and he was always scrupulous about how important a summons was. _Urgent_ would not used lightly, and Taren had shared something of Kel’s sense of a shoe yet to drop. In the meantime he was standing before the eldest dragon.

“Um, is there anything I can get you, my lord, until Ke- the Protector can return?”

_I need nothing, but thank you for asking. From your look you fear this is a serious matter._

“I do, my lord. The King would not send such a summons without need, and since discovering that ghastly shaman the Protector has wondered if, like other things, the Timeway’s eddies come in threes.”

_That may be, also. You witnessed the shaman’s death?_

“Sam and I were both there, my lord.”

_Then perhaps you will allow me to read your memories of the events? It is quicker than mortal speech._

That was nothing Taren had expected, and his eyes met Sam’s as he swallowed, but Kel’s advice had been very clear.

“Ah, of course, my lord. As you will.”

_Thank you._

He didn’t see the magic envelop him, but felt it — days since he’d come to New Hope flicking through his mind as if he were a book whose pages Lord Rainbow riffled. Emotions chased memories disorientingly, obscured by others before they could develop, and he felt a little battered as the presence in his mind withdrew, and the magic passed to Sam. Var gripped his hand.

“Are you alright, Tar?”

“I’m good, Var. Just a bit wobbly. It was _very_ odd.”

He leaned on her for a moment, but forced strength to his legs so he could support Sam in turn as the magic released him.

_Thank you. You both did well, and that shaman is fortunate he is already dead._

Lord Rainbow turned to Lord Diamondflame, watching them, as Lady Skysong did from her place in his paw. Sensitised by the magic, Taren was faintly aware of a great wash of power exchanged between the adult dragons, as far beyond a mindvoice as a mountain was beyond a pebble, but it faded as his head cleared. Other dragons were also attending, and new Journeydragons standing between parents, bodies taut. Glancing around, Taren saw things continuing, the queue at the messhall moving, but tension was spreading and expressions increasingly uneasy. He jumped as a horn call from the Eyrie sounded and was repeated, seeing fighting ogres lope towards their barracks, and the Scanrans of the Guard doing likewise. He looked at the dragonet.

“Do you know the meaning of the call, Lady Skysong? I don’t recognise it.”

_It summons all soldiers to report for duty, Taren. Something very bad must have happened._

“Then we shouldn’t be standing around. Who knows if we’ll be needed, Sam, but let’s get half-armour and weapons. Var, are you—”

“I’m fine, Tar. Go.”

He and Sam went, finding Sir Alanna and Lord Imrah heading for their rooms with the same purpose, though neither knew anything more. Finery was hastily discarded for sturdier wear, and they buckled one another’s breastplates, before adding swords to belts ; Taren chose to carry his helmet, and Sam followed suit. As they made their way more slowly back out, seeing a great bustle of soldiers around the Gatehouse and Var talking to Lords Rainbow and Diamondflame, Vesker found him, also in half-armour, and Taren commended his initiative, telling him to take orders from Lady Kel or Captain Uinse as orders from him.

“Right you are, my lord. ’E don’t know what’s happening no more than anyone, but ’is darking said someone else needs rescuing.”

Taren nodded. “We’ll have to wait and see, Vesker. Want to meet dragons?”

“Not much, my lord. They’re something else, aren’t they?”

“They are. Did you have any trouble with the spatial magic?”

“Only dizziness, my lord, but it cleared when we stopped moving.”

“It looked very odd indeed. Ah, here we go.”

Kel was moving fast, straight to Lords Diamondflame and Rainbow, and he and Sam broke into a trot, coming up behind her. All dragons were intent, as were immortals on the terrace. Two of the hounds came bounding down, and Taren recognised Wuodan and Frige.

“I’m afraid all bets are off, my lords. Princess Lianne was travelling to Cría, to meet Prince Loup — a marriage alliance has been proposed — and her party was attacked. She’s been seized by a Lord Biron, and is being held at his fortified town, Aussonne, on the Upper Drell. She has a pocket spellmirror Numair boosted, and managed to contact the king. I need to call out haMinch and other troops, and mount a full-scale expedition, which will take weeks at least.” Kel took a deep breath, and looked at Lord Diamondflame. “Unless. I know better than to ask you to fight, and would not do so anyway, but transport? One of your gateways to Aussonne?”

_Perhaps. When would you want to go, Protector?_

“In about an hour, my lord.”

_An hour? You will not have sufficient supplies so soon, and I would not leave you stranded in war._

“We won’t need supplies, my lord. It’ll take an hour or so there, and we can come back. If you’re willing.”

 _An hour?_ Taren wondered when Lord Diamondflame had last repeated himself. _You said it was a fortified town._

“Yes. Stone. And I have basilisks. If we can get there, we’ll punch straight through. All I want is Princess Lianne and her retinue.”

Lord Diamondflame cocked his head. _The basilisks are willing to be used thus?_

“Oh yes. They wouldn’t attack people, and I wouldn’t ask them to, but levelling a curtain-wall to free a Conté princess? Not a problem, I promise. We’ve discussed such a need. And my fighting ogres and Scanrans give me a strike force Lord Biron’s surviving men are not going to want to engage.”

_Protector, you are being very interesting yet again. Wuodan, this is within god Weiryn’s lands. Would you or he object?_

_I don’t, Diamondflame, and if Weiryn does he can say so himself._

_Very well, then. But I cannot open a gateway to somewhere I do not know, so I will need to be at the other end. What can you tell me of this Aussonne, Protector? There is a lot of the Upper Drell._

Kel’s relief was palpable. “Thank you.” She raised a hand to touch Lord Diamondflame’s lowered snout, and became brisk. “Main branch of the Upper Drell, about seventy miles north of the confluence with the Middle Drell. Backed against the river at the mouth of a wide valley, so the walls are a rough D-shape. Central keep on the river. Population of twelve or fifteen hundred. Ebony can relay a drawing the King had.”

_I have it._

“Put us a half-mile from the main gate?”

_Certainly. Where should the gateway open at this end?_

“Great North Road, five hundred yards north of the Stone Bridge.”

_Have Rainbow or Wingstar stand with you at the head of your column. In an hour, then, Protector._

“You use the spiral spell, Diamondflame?”

Queen Barzha was hovering, and Lord Diamondflame looked up.

_I do, Barzha. Would you come?_

“We would.” The Queen’s head swung to her guests. “I regret the cause, but it is good that you will see the Protector in action. There will be rich feeding too.”

 _The more the merrier._ Lord Diamondflame mindvoice was very dry. _Come then. Haste is needed._

Taren stepped back as the great blue-black dragon rose, but he cleared his own way, a corridor of space opening to the eastern alure, from which he launched himself, wings beating to bring him into a tight climbing spiral. Stormwings exploded into the air after him, Cloestra and the younglings among them, and downdrafts swirled. Taren dragged his attention back to earth as Kel started to swing away, pausing when Lady Skysong bounced to attention in front of her.

_We would learn much observing, Kel._

“ _Observing?_ ” Kel didn’t throw up her hands, quite, but Taren found his sympathies torn. The dragonet was wheedling when time was short, but he would like to observe himself. “You want to use a dragon gateway, Kit, ask the dragon. If Rainbow allows it, go ahead, but you make sure you’re safe. I don’t need anyone else to rescue today.”

Then she was gone, striding past the dragonet, telling a sparrow scouting would not be required, and calling Dom, Sir Alanna, and Lord Imrah to join her. Lady Skysong whirled to face Lord Rainbow, and from somewhere Lady Icefall popped up eagerly beside her, while the new Journeydragons all fell in behind the pair. Other dragons peered at Lord Rainbow, who rested his head on his crossed paws, considering the quivering dragonets before him, and Taren stifled a smile, noticing that other immortals were not bothering to do so. Kawit came down from the terrace to stand beside Lady Skysong.

_I know, Rainbow, but educational covers it, I believe. Once Diamondflame opens a gateway I could open my own, but if I use yours I will watch the young, mortal and immortal alike._

_I suspect you will have other things to watch, Kawit, and that there will be other watchers. War has always been a spectacle, but this bids fair to set a new mark._

_So much the better, surely? I need not fly to know this is a strong eddy, any more than you need sight. And the Protector yet rides the Timeway we only observe._

_So she does, though all is so hasty._

_Haste matters in mortal affairs, Rainbow, and not only because they lack our centuries. The Protector knows what it is to be female in a male’s power, as neither you nor I can. If this Biron has harmed the princess, he will meet the Black God’s judges this day. In Yaman she needed you to execute her justice. Today she needs only access to the place of injustice. All_ should  _attend, and learn._

Lord Rainbow slowly nodded. _You see clearly, Kawit. Very well. Those who would come to observe, immortal or mortal, organise yourselves, that we know how large a gateway will be needed._

 

* * * * *

 

The next forty minutes were madness. Very many people wanted to go, and in the absence of Kel and Sir Alanna no-one could actually say ‘no’ to Prince Roald, though both Dukes and Baron George tried hard, and Duchess Wilina was close to distraught. General Vanget only shook his head, saying they’d never persuade him when his sister was involved, and, collectively deciding they had to accompany him, a squad of the King’s Own from the Prince’s escort was summoned and told to prepare. Prince Roald then found himself trying just as unavailingly to say ‘no’ to his Princess, while Neal didn’t bother, only looking at Lady Ryokel, for whom a maid was promptly called. Kel, Sir Alanna, and Lord Imrah (with Squire Lachran) were huddled with basilisks, Numair and other Guild mages, fighting ogres, armoured spidrens, samurai, and Scanrans, clearly not to be disturbed, so when Taren saw Master Sternross and Lord Avinar arguing theology still in their finery, and realised they too were intent on bearing witness, he made his way to Lord Rainbow with a simple question, received the answer he’d wanted in what he thought was a tone of approval, and took a deep breath before bellowing for attention.

“Your Royal Highnesses, Your Graces, my lords and ladies, masters and mistresses. However we all hope this goes as swiftly as Lady Keladry believes possible, we go to witness combat, and anyone who heads for a battle without armour or weapons is a fool. By Lord Rainbow’s fiat, no-one without armour will pass the dragon gateway, and as the rock spell and who knows what other magic will be used, anyone without a horse trained to such things is on foot.”

“Quite right.” General Vanget swept everyone with a glare. “Is Lord Taren the only person here with any sense at all?”

As he and Sam already had half-armour on, they had only to procure a cuirass and helmet for Var, which Vesker managed readily while she changed. Some could fetch their own, but Taren spoke to Captain Uinse on behalf of the apprentice branch supervisors, who might learn a lot, while for Master Sternross and assorted Mindelans there was a deal of rushing and wheedling before Piers put his foot down, forbidding grandchildren without their own armour to hand — neatly excluding all but Tobe and Squire Lachran. Dom’s father, Lord Thomas, did much the same, though Lady Elisa and their two elder sons, Gregor and Samuel, were not to be gainsaid. Sulking youngsters were despatched to the sidelines with brisk orders to be useful or keep out of the way, but even Piers could not stop Ilane from donning a cuirass and fetching her glaive.

“I fight better than you anyway, Piers, and it’s not just that, nor curiosity. Think of Lianne and her ladies. And has anyone told Jonathan what’s happening, or did Kel just leave him dangling in the mirror?”

It turned out Dom had kept the king up to date, if tersely, and would remain to pass on a running darking relay. Tobe was coming, however, and having seen to Kel’s weapons and horse was placed firmly in Piers’s charge. Dom also explained to a concerned Piers and Lord Ferghal that Kel had been authorised to use army troops in Galla as needed, while the samurai and armoured spidrens insisted they were charged by His Imperial Majesty to aid in any emergency, and should act against anyone, Gallan or otherwise, who had stolen a Conté Princess. Kel had nevertheless unilaterally inducted them all into the Guild as temporary members, and declared the whole a Guild matter as it had interrupted Guild business. Piers blew out a dubious breath, and the legal and diplomatic complexities struck Taren hard — one might call it invasion, an act of war, but then so was royal kidnap, and he didn’t think King Lewis or Prince Loup would be arguing about a successful rescue ; assuming they were not complicit — for if they were there would probably be a war anyway, though with whom, exactly, remained oddly moot. And whatever the mortal tangle of Tortallan, Scanran, and Yamani troops, immortals were getting involved as well : Quenuresh was curious, and so were many ogres as well as the hounds. Then Duchess Wilina saw Lady Yukimi in armour and began to pitch a fit, but was firmly cut off.

“Esteemed mother of my husband, please _think_. We will be with very many dragons, never mind a score of the Wild Hunt. We will not be attacked. And Keladry- _sensei_ is making history again, before our eyes. I am not at all sure Ryokel will be quick to forgive us when she realises what she is being excluded from, especially on her birthday, but I leave her in your care.”

“But Yukimi, it’s madness to go like this!”

“No, it is Keladry- _sensei_. And Honoured Ilane is correct that Her Royal Highness will need the company of women as soon as may be, even if she is personally unharmed.” The Duchess paled. “Now we must be ready to go. Time presses, and Keladry- _sensei_ comes.”

Kel did, sweeping the assembly with a fulminating glance checked by Tobe telling her Alder was all set, and asking how much armour she wanted. Shaking her head, she settled for half-armour and bascinet, and let him do the buckling before ruffling his hair.

“Thank you, Tobe. Be safe. Everyone, keep your wits about you and for the love of all gods keep out of the way. Lord Rainbow, the military column will be assembled on the Road shortly.”

_We will be there, Protector._

Then all was movement, seemingly chaotic but underlyingly disciplined. Fledged dragons left via the alures, as Lord Diamondflame had, while the unfledged, with Kawit, many other immortals, and assorted mortals trotted out and down in the wake of Kel’s column — herself, flanked by Sir Alanna and Lord Imrah, with Squire Lachran, Scanrans, samurai, mages, and six squads of archers from New Hope First and Second, led by Sir Voelden, all mounted, with basilisks and fighting ogres running and armoured spidrens scuttling behind, the flicker of their blades at once fascinating and repellent. Emerging from the Gatehouse Taren could see adult dragons assembled on the Road, and if descending was easy enough, on the flat he felt sweat starting ; he and Sam had to help Var, unused to armour, to keep up. Tobeis, he saw, ran easily carrying Piers’s helmet as well as his own, as Sir Inness carried Ilane’s. Lord Ferghal and General Vanget had no problems, but Master Sternross and Lord Avinar were gasping by the time they pulled up, and cast angry looks at Sir Anders, who rode up with a groom, dismounted, and sent the groom back with his horse.

“You know I can’t run with my leg, Avinar. You just wish you’d thought of riding this far, when you should be thinking that you’ve let yourself get badly out of shape.”

Lord Avinar looked indignant, but Taren saw Piers and Ilane suppress smiles, and it was true that despite Piers’s portliness and Lord Avinar’s gauntness father had done better than son. Several dragons, including Lord Jadewing, were spreading to form a line a good fifty yards long, and Lord Rainbow’s mindvoice commanded those not fighting to form a broad front. Hounds led the way, and as Taren ushered Sam and Var sideways magic bloomed and a glittering archway appeared, at first spanning the road, then enlarging. Glitter faded and what had to be Galla showed in the opening, a vista of a rutted track, aligned with the Great North Road, that led towards tall grey walls and a barbican above which stormwings circled — a view swiftly obscured as Kel led the column through and dust rose in its wake. Then all were jogging forward, and he felt a strange tingle as he passed under the arch, finding long grass under his feet as he registered a sky as cloudless as at New Hope but air that was distinctly cooler with a slight breeze. Lord Diamondflame, on the other side of the road, was looking at the arriving crowd with an expression Taren couldn’t read, though mingled exasperation and amusement might cover it, and it changed as adult dragons began stepping through and the air became charged with their conversation. He checked Sam, Var, and Tobeis, then Vesker and his men, and after a second’s thought told Vesker to join the King’s Own squad and form a perimeter. The sweating sergeant commanding the royal squad seemed thankful, and soldiers spread out to encircle the motley party, drawing amused looks from immortals and grateful ones from mortals, suddenly conscious of what they were about and where they now stood.

The breadth of the arch meant all had come through surprisingly quickly, and after a sweeping survey by Lords Diamondflame and Rainbow it began to close, shrinking towards a point. Before it could vanish a small tawny form swept through, swooping upwards again, and blue-black magic crackled, snapping Junior out of the air and depositing him in front of an enraged Lord Diamondflame, head dipping to within an inch of the griffin’s as the world quivered. When it stilled Junior was a blanched white, and leaped backwards to dash behind Tobe’s legs and crouch, trembling. Lord Diamondflame glared after him, and Tobe, eyebrows high, turned to consider the young immortal, before reaching down to haul him up by the scruff of the neck, and look him in the eye.

“Now that’s no way to behave, Junior. I don’t know how you offended Diamondflame, but you shouldn’t run away. Straighten up, and tell him you’re sorry. Oh yes, you will, and right now.”

Tobe crossed the road, holding Junior up to face the great dragon. What a griffin apology might be like was anyone’s guess, but after a long moment of eye contact Tobe set Junior down, telling him to stay at heel or else, and Lord Diamondflame sighed.

_I begin to see what the Protector means about that one. One half-second later and half of him would have been here, the other half yet at New Hope, and all of him thoroughly dead._

“Well, it didn’t happen, fortunately, and he’s properly abashed, my lord. Where should we go?”

_You grow as sensible as your mother, Tobeis. There is a ridge to the north that will afford a proper view. If all head that way we will hasten your steps, for the Protector is not dawdling._

Tobe turned, saw everyone was watching him, and pointed. “You heard him, gentlebeings. We go that way, now.”

And they did, at astonishing speed, for each step covered a great deal more ground than it ought. It wasn’t quite the seven-league boots of the old tale, but close enough that a bare minute saw them spreading out along the top of the ridge — a steep, grassy down dotted with trees. The mass of dragons anchored one end of the line, clustering around Lord Rainbow, then other immortals, hounds interspersed with more arriving from thin air, and bunched mortals, while Lord Diamondflame anchored the other. Lady Skysong bounced across to sit between him and Tobe, peering at a chastened Junior, and Taren had to stifle a laugh when he heard Tobe tell her that further scolding would not help and she couldn’t yet match her grandsire in that department anyway. He rather thought Lord Diamondflame told her to hush as well, and his attention swung out to the valley and fortified town below.

The defences were substantial, crenellated walls in a forbidding dark stone curving from smaller towers on the riverbank at either end to a four-stage barbican. He could just make out heads peering through crenels, and the gates were firmly shut, surrounding fields deserted, abandoned carts and lowing oxen indicating rapid flight — not surprisingly when Lord Diamondflame and a stormwing nation appeared from nowhere. More disturbingly, by the road leading north along the river a body dangled from a gibbet, swaying in the breeze. Within the walls crowded rooves revealed from this height an irregular grid, a central way running from the gate to a walled enclosure by the river with an elevated great house, and side-streets projecting from it. Above the great house and barbican flags bore a river dolphin hauriant.

Kel’s column had halted about two hundred yards from the gates, and basilisks with mages were deploying into line, archers forming a second line behind them and dismounting to nock longbows, heads turning as they scanned crenels. It would be a long shot, but Taren could see the gleam of griffin fletching. The formation momently resembled a crossbow, the column as stock and bolt, mages and basilisks as the lath, archers the string ready to fire the bolt ; it was fanciful but not false, and when he mentioned it to Sam and Var he found Piers and Ilane listening too, with Masbolles and others beyond.

“May the bolt fly true and be in time, Taren.” Piers’s voce was tense. “I only hope we’re not starting a war.”

“I think we’re ending one Lord Biron already started.” Taren shrugged. “Kel’s aiming to make it the shortest war in history.”

“Huh. That’s a more comforting view.”

 _And a wise one._ Lord Diamondflame’s head began to turn towards him but suddenly swung the other way. _Gods are coming, not before time._

Taren blinked but there wasn’t time to parse that judgement as silver flared beyond the dragon, spreading along the ridgeline as gods stepped into the world — many gods, and varied. Taren couldn’t see clearly, but there were animals, horse, cat, and bear, an antlered figure who must be Lord Weiryn with the Green Lady, others shining beyond, and closest to Lord Diamondflame a warrior in half-armour, dark skin gleaming, the Great Goddess beside him and both looking up at the dragon.

“What are you about, dragon Diamondflame, to call us here?”

Taren had heard the sound behind that voice before, a distant fury of battle, or not so distant, and was suddenly very glad it was not addressing him, but Lord Diamondflame’s reply was unruffled.

_I am about nothing, god Mithros. We merely facilitate a Guild proceeding to recover a kidnapped princess. And I did not summon you, but only thought you might wish to see the Protector at work, for it seems she is about to be very interesting indeed._

“Again?”

But Lord Mithros turned, folding his arms as he stared down. The basilisks and mages were fully deployed, archers behind them and the column still, while Kel rode forward alone towards the gate and stormwings circled lower and lower. Taren knew bowing was superfluous in this moment, but went to one knee for a second, head lowered, before rising again to look out. Piers and Ilane followed suit, with others, but Lord Avinar stayed down, and to his consternation Master Sternross was stumbling forwards, face exalted as he stared at Lord Mithros. An alarmed Piers reached to grasp the mage’s sleeve but was shaken off, and Taren wondered if the man even saw Lord Diamondflame as he crossed under the dragon’s head and fell prostrate at the god’s feet with a low moan, his helmet rolling away. Lord Mithros glanced down, one eyebrow high, and stopped the helmet with a sandalled foot.

“Your timing is reason enough to deny you, whoever you are. And how do you suppose you’re going to see anything grovelling like that?”

A nasty silence in which Master Sternross moved not one inch was broken by Piers’s breathed “Oh _dear_ ”. Taren found a desire to laugh threading through exaltation and nerves, and grabbed Sam’s hand.

“Come on, Sam, we’re closest. Do please excuse us, Lord Diamondflame.”

Without looking round the dragon pulled his paws back slightly, and Taren nodded as he led Sam past them.

“Thank you, my lord.” He went to one knee, pulling Sam down, bent his head, and stood, pulling Sam up again as he met the god’s eyes, where stars wheeled and lightning flickered. He swallowed. “Lord Mithros, I believe Master Sternross is overcome with piety in your presence. Please forgive him. Take his other arm, Sam.”

They hauled the elderly mage up, and Taren saw his face was slack, eyes unfocused.

“I told you impropriety could be pious, Master Sternross.” Sam shot him a nervy, exhilarated grin. “Come on, now.”

“Here, take this too. I don’t suppose it was meant as an offering, and if it was I don’t want it.”

Taren, ears ringing, found he was being given the mage’s helmet, and freed a hand to take it.

“Thank you, my lord.”

With an awkward half-bow to the god he helped Sam turn the mage, and they more than half carried him back past Lord Diamondflame as Lord Mithros’s voice again rang in his ears.

“More mortals who are both polite and sensible. Wonders never cease.”

_The Protector has been training them up. Even so, they cannot see or hear as you and I can. Will you aid them, or shall I?_

“Aid … Oh, why not? They might as well enjoy what they came for.”

Taren’s desire to laugh intensified as he saw mortal expressions — not only Lord Avinar’s horrified wonder, but Prince Roald’s wide eyes and half-open mouth, Princess Shinkokami’s intense stillness, Lady Yukimi stifling a giggle, Lord Thomas and Lady Elisa gaping, Neal’s and Baron George’s eyes narrowed in appreciation, Lord Ferghal’s bushy eyebrows almost at his hairline, and, heartstoppingly, the pride on Vesker’s face. He doubted Master Sternross could stand unaided, and with a word to Sam set the helmet down and they deposited him on it, keeping him upright with fingers hooked round the edges of his ill-fitting cuirass. Duke Baird came to stand by them, resting a hand filled with green fire on the old man’s head for a moment, and shrugged.

“A slight apoplexy, I think, or just overcome. Nothing to be done, in any case. Can you mind him, Lord Taren?”

Taren nodded, Duke Baird returned to stand by Neal and Lady Yukimi, and Taren looked out again to see a great window had opened in the air before them, within which a magnified Kel was just pulling up on Alder, her head raised to a man leaning through the nearest crenel to the right of the barbican, his eyes flickering between her and the ridgeline. The blank face must conceal nervousness, even if he hadn’t realised massed gods were watching, but there was something about him that made Taren think of Joren — though whether that was his own perception or a power of the window he couldn’t tell.

“Who commands at the gates of Aussonne?”

Kel spoke in Common and the reply matched her.

“That would be me.”

“And you are, sir?”

“Etenne of Aussonne, commanding my brother’s Guard.”

“We come to reclaim Her Royal Highness Princess Lianne of Conté, Lord Etenne, and any kidnapped with her. Surrender them at once, unharmed, and all may live save any who have laid hands on her.”

Kel’s voice rang loud, clear, and implacable, and Lord Etenne’s eyes narrowed as he forced a sneer into a voice more ragged than he’d wish.

“How kind of you, whoever you are. Do you suppose we went to all that trouble for nothing?”

“Guildmaster Countess Keladry of New Hope and Mindelan.” It could hardly be anyone else, but the title Kel had claimed mattered, giving the Guild priority without forgoing her Tortallan rank. “And as you admit Princess Lianne’s presence, so you admit your capital crime. Did you suppose the Guild would do nothing? Surrender her and all seized with her, now, or face immediate and final punishment.”

A genuine puzzlement flickered on Lord Etenne’s face but he reinforced his sneer. “Big title for a woman. We didn’t expect basilisks, I grant you, nor anyone quite so soon, never mind your precious guild, but you might notice our walls are already stone, as I notice you don’t have anything like the forces you need. Besides, my brothers and I don’t much care for surrendering anything, so you can go whistle.”

“Wrong. Basilisks shatter stone as readily as they make it. Your walls will be down in minutes. Last chance. The Princess, now.”

Doubts chased over his face before it hardened again. “So you say. Dragons might have got you here, girlie, but they’re staying out of it, and those lesser immortals will fall to our crossbows as readily as you will if you don’t leave as fast as you came.”

“Fool. The dragons but open the way, of their grace, that I may act.” Kel’s voice was as flat as her roads, and she cast it more widely. “Men of Aussonne, if you would live flee your alures and barbican now, before they fall. You will have no further warning, and your time is short.”

She turned Alder, trotting back towards the head of the column, and as Lord Etenne stared after her in bafflement, other faces peering from crenels, one arm waved basilisks and mages forward, archers advancing behind them. They stopped with the basilisks only fifty yards from the walls, and magic glittered in a great sheet, dominated in the middle by Numair’s sparkling black but shading into other colours along its length, which angled and tautened, at once shielding basilisks and mages from any fire the archers didn’t discourage, and sliding forwards to rest on the walls about four feet above the ground. A second sheet could be made out underneath it, touching the wall perhaps eighteen inches lower, and spreading back and slightly up towards the basilisks. As soon as both were in position they pulsed, and from a score of open snouts the shrieking avalanche of the melting spell thrashed the air, rippling the sheet into coruscating colours but held and focused, and going on and on. Like every mortal, even dazed Master Sternross, Taren had his hands clapped to his ears, feeling his bones vibrate, and was left half-deafened when the sound abruptly cut off and the sheets of magic contracted, reforming into a thick protective barrier. For a long second nothing seemed to happen, then stone squirted out all along the base of the walls and barbican and with a tired sigh that became a thundering rumble what had been above the melted stone began to fall, much as Master Sternross had, lower courses kneeling by the wall’s foot and upper ones with crowning merlons arcing down to pock the earth. The ground shook, dust billowed in a boiling mass, and Taren’s breath caught as stones and whirling men hurtled out of it, crashing to shattered ruin, among them Lord Etenne, dead face incredulous. The Black God would be busy, and knowing most of the dead were as much victims of their lord as Princess Lianne, he spoke a short prayer for their souls, pitying the terrified surprise they must have known at their abrupt and incredible ends even as he truly grasped the burden Kel bore. Beside him Sam and Var joined his ‘So mote it be’, Piers and Ilane echoing them.

“He cares for all the souls Kel sends him, Taren.” Ilane didn’t look round. “It’s part of their deal. That’s why she makes a point of burying without rites when she _really_ doesn’t like what someone’s done. Oh! Now that’s neat.”

As the rumble faded the sheet of magic swiftly rose in a great curve before flattening to the ground and clearing most of the dust. The walls had been thick, and not everything had fallen : the front face had gone, and most of the fill had slumped, but the back face largely remained, with the rear half of the barbican ; no-one could be seen on any wall, but its now tattered stages each held shocked survivors, pressed against rear walls and blinking in the light. Kel’s voice rose, still flat and implacable even as she offered mercy of a sort.

“Surviving men of Aussonne, you have one minute before the rest of that barbican comes down. Even jumping is better than falling. Go.”

The last word was a cracked command to cut through shock, and men stirred, swirling towards corner doors where a staircase must remain. By the time Taren’s mental count reached sixty none were still visible, but Kel gave it another ten before raising an arm towards Numair. Once again sheets of magic curled out, targeting the cloven barbican with the walls immediately beside it, and the basilisks roared, their spell drilling into mortal ears as into stone. Taren pressed his hands tightly, wondering if second use allowed them to adjust for greater efficiency : certainly the spell was shorter, stone jetted rather than squirted, and the upper courses fell straight down, dust again billowing violently before magic slapped it to earth. Without an order being given that Taren heard, mages and basilisks gathered in front of Kel, and this time the sheets of magic formed a flattened funnel as wide as the roadway. With all basilisks focusing on such a small area chunks of fallen rubble swiftly slumped into sludge that oozed and levelled — some basilisks switching to resetting it as a third sheet of magic extended, dividing the funnel horizontally, while the rest continued to melt forwards.

 _Now_ that _is cleverly done. The Protector said she had discussed the need for such action with the basilisks, but to achieve such fluency in first practice is very fine._

“Oh she’s nothing if not thorough.” Lord Mithros sounded far more cheerful than he had, the clashing arms behind his voice very distant, and Taren looked sideways to see a reluctantly admiring smile on the god’s face. “And so very respectful, except when she isn’t. It’s how she manages to be so impetuous at the same time that’s the puzzle.”

_She is of the roil, long years in the making and filled with sudden currents in the being. And she is full young, despite all._

“She merely sees no reason for needless delay.” Hounds belled behind the voice of the Great Goddess, and Master Sternross started. “You might try it, brother.”

Taren glanced at Lady Skysong, seeing her eyes narrow, and was saved from open laughter only by the hand clawing at his arm. He looked into the old mage’s bewildered eyes.

“Who was that, my lord? Who spoke so fairly?”

“The Great Goddess, Master Sternross.” Mischief plucked at him. “She advises her brother Lord Mithros to take a leaf from Lady Keladry’s book.”

“Eh?”

“Think about it, watch what’s happening, and hush.”

“What is it with pious old men?” Ilane’s voice was soft and wondering. “He’s Lord Hidetaki all over again.”

“I’m a pious old man, my dear, but I take your point.” Piers’s reply was just as soft, and Taren strained to hear while he tracked basilisks, whose impromptu roadway through the ruins was nearly done, and stormwings circling tightly above, consuming what must be an astonishing meal. “As Unferth was to Blayce, perhaps, in some small way. Kel is forever saying the Timeway likes its echoes. Here we go again.”

The last echoes of the basilisks’ spells died away and most withdrew with the mages, clearing the road before the column ; two remained — Var’istaan and Spir’aan, Taren thought. Rubble was still heaped on either side, but a wide and level, if elevated, way ran cleanly through it to the main street beyond, itself arrow-straight to the gates of the great house. Kel’s arm chopped down, and the column went to a canter, Sir Alanna and Lord Imrah with Squire Lachran behind her as the two basilisks bracketed her, Scanrans and ogres moving up into flanking lines. The view in the window moved with them, and at each side-street a samurai, an armoured spidren, and a fighting ogre peeled off to stand across it, drawn swords, glaive blades, and sledgehammer heads gleaming. Beside him he heard Sam’s hum of appreciation.

“She’s saving lives again, Tar. You might attack ordinary soldiers, but anyone’s going to think twice about mixing it with one of those trios.”

The side-streets offered glimpses of staring people, drawn from their homes by the noise, recoiling as the ogre in each trio bellowed words of warning and reassurance — stand back and take no harm, we come only to reclaim those wrongly seized. For the final three side-streets, when the last samurai-and-spidren pair had been deployed, their places were taken by Scanrans bracketing an ogre, double axes gleaming, and Taren realised silence was gripping the town, a faint clamour he’d barely registered dying away, and with it any thought of resistance. He doubted it was much more than five minutes since Kel had warned them of imminent assault, and already the town was hers — saving only the great house, its squat gatehouse now in view. Dark wooden gates had been pushed shut, but the basilisks flanking Kel raced forwards, and the rock-spell thrashed the air. Light grey flashed across the dark panels, and the basilisks added a saw-toothed shriek to their song that had him clapping hands to ears once more as the gates shivered and exploded inwards in hundreds of fragments.

Taren glanced sideways as Tobe nodded satisfaction, seeing that Junior had recovered some colour and was watching alertly.

“Yes! Wood would take time to hew, but make it stone and they can blow it away. I heard Ma and Var’istaan talk about doing that.”

_And whose idea was it, Tobeis?_

“Ma’s.” The boy glanced up at the dragon, grinning as his unbroken voice dropped to a register nearer Kel’s. “Can you make it a light, brittle stone that another spell or a sledgehammer could shatter? Right, then. Next problem?”

_She really does think well. This is by far the most efficient mortal assault I have ever seen._

Lord Mithros gave what Taren would have to call a snort, however distant battle sounded behind it, but his attention remained on the window, where Kel and the column had not even slowed as they swept through the abruptly open gate. Soldiers behind it had been bowled over by exploding stone, some unconscious, others cut and bruised ; Kel and the column ignored them, and the only one who tried to stagger to his feet was sent sprawling by a tap from a passing ogre’s sledgehammer. The last two ogres peeled off to stand in the gateway, one cheerfully informing the sprawled that they could stay down and live or be silly and die, and by then Kel was swinging off Alder at the foot of five broad and shallow steps leading to the main door of the house. It was being pushed shut, a natural if pointless reaction, and basilisks would not be needed, for an ogre took the steps in a single bound, sledgehammer swinging to strike with tremendous force directly above the handle. The door cracked back, hurling aside the men who’d been closing it as hinges started from their mounts, and the ogre sprang through, Kel on his heels, glaive in hand, Sir Alanna, Lord Imrah, and Squire Lachran right behind, swords drawn, and more ogres and Scanrans pouring after them.

Once inside Kel slowed for the first time, scanning the space, and the image in the window showed all. The door-closers had been two armoured soldiers, both down and out, slumped against the wall ; an elderly servant in dolphin-sigil livery stood in shocked immobility some yards away, while other faces peered from doorways. Kel considered him.

“Your name and position, sir?”

Her voice was still flat with rage, still implacable, brooking no defiance, yet not unkind, for this man too was an innocent.

“Ja- Jacques, my lady. Deputy Steward.”

“Good. Where is Princess Lianne of Conté?”

“First floor, east wing, my lady. My lord’s up there now.”

“And her retinue?”

“Rooms alongside her. The soldiers are locked in the cellars.”

“All their horses are in the stables here?”

“They are, my lady.”

“Right. Your lord commits high treason and an act of war. If you and his other servants would live and be free of penalty from the House of Conté, get those in the cellars free and all horses saddled, with their property where it ought to be. Imrah, please see that they do. Moriaju, Ameriaju, Paliaju, be his muscle. Eskvar, Lars, Wulf, with them in case mortal size is needed. Everyone else with me, upstairs.”

Even as she spoke Kel was moving again, and the window followed her though Lord Imrah could be heard giving servants and Squire Lachran crisply polite orders about what would be done in what order. At the staircase two Scanrans leaped ahead of her, and where it divided, east and west, one remained at the perron, guarding the west stair, while the other went east and Kel followed. An armoured guard stood at the top, sword in hand, but when he saw the Scanran’s axes and the ogres behind Kel he stood hastily back, dropping his sword behind him and keeping his hands wide. The Scanran shot him a disdainful look, and Kel paused.

“Second sensible man I’ve met here. Princess Lianne?”

“Down there.” He pointed to a corridor. “If you’ll let me?”

Kel cocked her head slightly, and the guard shuffled sideways a few paces, hands still wide, so he could be seen from the corridor.

“We have _no_ chance, Gillan, Havnor. Down arms, now, and get back.”

“Use whatever authority you have to make sure others stand down, and send them to help the servants free those in the cellars, saddle horses, and assemble all stolen property. Ogres, in pairs to open all doors. _Don’t_ hurt anyone inside, and get all freed down and out.”

Kel was already moving, the Scanran ahead of her, and two ogres, ducking under a ceiling too low for them, slid past Sir Alanna to flank her. Down the corridor guards standing by a door, presumably Gillan and Havnor, stared and hastily laid down weapons, backing away. Kel ignored them, tried the handle, and slammed her fist against the wood.

“Princess Lianne?”

“ _Yes?_ ”

The voice was muffled.

“Stand clear of the door.”

“ _I am. Get away!_ ”

The last was a shriek.

“Ogres, open it _now_.”

Kel stood aside, and the ogres swiftly positioned themselves to swing their sledgehammers with great control. Each struck the door just by one hinge, driving it back an inch or more, and one promptly struck a second blow directly above the handle before the second slung an arm around its neck and jumped, feet lashing out to strike the door above its central panel and crash it flat — the ogre following through to land on it inside the room. A thin scream rose from a man under it, but all eyes were on the chamber itself — a disordered bedroom, ornate bed pulled askew with Princess Lianne behind it, dress torn, and on the near side a staring, richly dressed man with a badly scratched face, one heavily bandaged hand, and a dagger in the other.

“Lord Biron, I presume?”

The man drew himself up. “Yes. Who the—”

His words were cut off as Kel spun her glaive, the butt cracking into his head. He fell like a stone.

“Your Royal Highness, are you alright?”

“ _Keladry?_ Gods! How … I …” The Princess took a deep breath. “Yes. I wasn’t … hurt, though _he_ tried.” She gestured to the fallen lord. “And they hanged Anna because she cut him defending me. My Lady-in-Waiting, Anna of Nicoline.”

Taren heard a sound of both relief and sorrow he thought was Prince Roald as Kel’s voice sliced the air.

“Esmond’s sister?”

“Yes. Master Fellon’s dead too — shot down from cover when the attack started. _He_ did that. Biron’s brother Julian. He was  _boasting_ about his shot.”

She pointed to the man crushed by the door. Sir Alanna had two ogres shift it, and knelt by the moaning figure.

“He’s a goner, Kel. Back broken and ribs crushed, sticking into everything. Mercy stroke?”

There was a crackling silence for a few seconds, in which Taren could hear sledgehammers thudding in the corridor, before Kel nodded.

“By rights he should hang, Alanna, but if there’s no point trying the Black God can deal with him now. Pain serves no-one. I just wish it didn’t fall to me.”

“It doesn’t, Lady Kel.” The moaning was cut off as an ogre dropped a sledgehammer on Lord Julian’s head. “What about the other one?”

Princess Lianne had blanched and Kel closed her eyes for a second, but when she opened them again her gaze was level.

“Wait, Seniaju. But thank you.” Her head turned. “Yes or no, Your Royal Highness, on your honour. Lord Biron tried to rape you, Anna defended you, and for slicing his hand was hanged by his direct order.”

“Yes. Last night. They made me watch, and left her hanging for the crows, Black God curse them all.”

“He curses none, but his judges will not look kindly on them. Bring him, Seniaju. He hangs this hour. Your Royal Highness, gather anything that is yours, and swiftly. We need to be gone. Alanna, check that everyone who should be is free and heading out?”

“On it, Kel.”

Sir Alanna ducked out of the gaping doorway, voice cracking, and the Princess grabbed a shawl and pointed to a trunk.

“They gave me my personal baggage but I didn’t unpack.”

Kel didn’t need to give orders. Two Scanrans grabbed the trunk and swung out, and Kel nodded.

“Let’s go. Horses should be waiting, or we’ll double up as needed.” She slung an arm around the Princess’s shaking shoulders. “Hang on a bit longer, Your Royal Highness. Tell me what happened?”

Doing so kept the Princess occupied as Kel steered her out, Scanrans and ogres before and behind. The corridor was full of maids and male servants squawking relief, more noble abductees among them, with Sir Alanna and ogres chivvying all to hurry, and Kel’s party swept people along, an increasing number of ogres and Scanrans grabbing panniers and bags and telling people _Go!_ There was no sign of any guards, nor liveried servants, and stairway and hall were deserted, but outside the front door a confusion of horses, grooms, ogres, Scanrans, and soldiers waited, resolving itself as saddlebags were hung, trunks strapped onto packhorses, and riders unceremoniously mounted. As order prevailed, Kel surveyed them, and turned to Seniaju, bearing a limp Lord Biron.

“You’re good carrying him, Seniaju?”

“Certainly, Lady Kel. To that gibbet?”

“Yes.” Her head swung, searching faces. “Lord Ventnor, there were forty-eight in your party?”

The elderly noble’s face was badly bruised, and from the way he moved his body too, but he had kept his wits.

“There were, Countess, with the soldiers.”

“How many dead besides Anna and Master Fellon?”

“Half the soldiers at least. They killed Fellon and rushed us.”

An Ownsman raised a crudely bandaged arm. “Fourteen of twenty dead in the ambush, Lady Kel — crossbow volley from behind a cloaking-spell — and Warlan died of his wounds overnight. The five of us are here and we have his body. The others were left to rot.”

Hearing the name and sensing Sam stiffen Taren realised these were men they had met in Corus, when they’d spoken to Macarran.

“Where were you attacked, Darin?”

“About five miles south, on the Upper Drell Road.”

“I’ll recover the bodies. Who was responsible for the cloaking-spell?”

“Master Arnaud, they called him.”

Kel’s gaze swung to the Deputy Steward. “Where is Master Arnaud?”

“He was with Lord Etenne, my lady, on the walls.”

“Then let’s hope he’s dead. All freed Tortallans raise hands. Alanna, Imrah, Lachran, headcounts.” Kel was counting too, and all four totals were thirty-one, plus the uniformed corpse slung over one of the mounts of the dead. “Right. All freed, you need to be in column two abreast. Servants of Lord Biron, our vengeance falls on your lord alone, though you have still to answer to King Lewis. If you live, count yourselves _very_ lucky, and don’t  _ever_ offend the Craftsbeings’ Guild or Tortall again, in any way. New Hope, let’s get out of here.”

With Kel and Sir Alanna driving them, and the disciplined example of New Hope forces, freed were rapidly organised and followed a vanguard of ogres and Scanrans out through the shattered gates. Sir Alanna and Lord Imrah flanked Princess Lianne, behind packhorses and the two basilisks, and Kel with the remaining ogres and Scanrans brought up the rear — until those who’d peeled off began rejoining the column as it passed back down the main street. The view in the window flipped to one from in front, and Taren saw Lord Ventnor and others staring amazement as they saw the shattered walls and barbican, bisected by the basilisk roadway. As the last armoured spidren and samurai cleared it Lord Mithros spoke, something Taren wanted to call astonishment in his voice, muting the clash of arms.

“Twenty-three minutes since she asked who commanded the gates.”

_And twenty-eight since she arrived from New Hope. It must count as the swiftest siege there has ever been._

“It was hardly a siege at all, but I grant the swiftness. And it’s quite the pair with New Hope, defensive and offensive.”

_She has also contained the eddy, I believe._

“It shrinks, certainly. You wanted it so?”

_I hoped for it. The Protector has better things to do than fight another pointless mortal war._

“There’s that. And she’s not done yet.”

With room to manoeuvre, Kel was dividing the column, sending most freed with mages and archers, under Lord Imrah, to wait up the road, while some Scanrans trotted back towards Aussonne, where a crowd was gathering at the fallen barbican. Kel’s head turned to her collar.

“Ebony, can Diamondflame hear you?”

“Yes. What say?”

“Could he please ask Baird and Neal to meet the freed? There’s no reason for them to lack healing while they wait.”

The healers were already moving, Lady Yukimi and four soldiers trailing them. Prince Roald’s gaze stayed on his sister, still with Kel, and General Vanget rested a hand on his shoulder.

“Leave Kel to it, Roald. Your sister’s safe, and even if you could get down there in time your presence would be an unholy complication.”

The Prince wasn’t happy but subsided as Princess Shinkokami gripped his arm, eyes fixed on the window where Kel, with Sir Alanna, most immortals, and the Scanrans, escorted the Princess with a shocked and protesting Lord Ventnor towards the lonely gibbet and its burden.

“On the contrary, Lord Ventnor. Swift justice is necessary, and a great deal more practical. Do you really think the King wants a capital trial of a Gallan noble in Corus? My Guard are collecting some witnesses. And I’m not leaving any of the dead if I can help it.”

Kel turned in the saddle, looking up, and waved an arm in summons. Queen Barzha and Lord Hebakh slid out of the stormwings’ lazy figure-of-eight and down to glide above her, looking sated.

“Your Majesty, about five miles south on the river road are fourteen dead King’s Ownsmen and a mage, Master Fellon, left unburied where they were slain. Might the Stone Tree Nation recover the bodies and bring them to us, that we may bury them properly?”

“You want us to clean up a battlefield, Protector? How marvellously unnatural.” Queen Barzha’s voice was mellow and amused. “Our claws will cut them, you know.”

“Grasp armour if you can, please, but cut is better than left.”

“And what are you doing?”

“Recovering another body and substituting _him_.” Kel jerked a thumb at Lord Biron, still carried by Seniaju.

“Well, I can’t miss _that_ , but Cloestra can marshal the others to fetch and carry, in that nice new tunic of hers.”

“As you will, but swiftly please. As soon as this is dealt with I want to get back to New Hope. Oh, and do you know how many gods are up on the ridge? It felt like lots when they arrived.”

“That’s because it was lots, Protector. More than a poor stormwing can count. No-one wants to miss one of your shows.” Kel gave the stormwing a look that made her cackle. “Gods’ truth, Protector.”

“The surface of it, maybe. Their business always has more skins than an onion. But the bodies, please.”

“Of course.”

The stormwings flapped into climbs, Queen Barzha calling for Cloestra, and Lord Mithros shook his head.

“Marvellously unnatural! And Barzha’s _pleased_ with it.”

_The Protector’s reformation of the Stone Tree Nation is delightfully unexpected, and bears interesting fruit. Which reminds me, what was Shakith about with the Staff of Light this morning?_

Lord Mithros grimaced, as Taren registered the true name.

“Your guess is as good as mine. She said the day will come when that Staff lights all Three Realms. I tend to agree with Jonathan of Conté that prophecy’s more trouble than it’s worth.”

_Hmm. Yet perhaps we might talk of that one sometime. The Firestone has absorbed sunbird magic from the icerunes. Kawit has an interesting thought about it, also._

“Perhaps we might. All this peace has its advantages.”

_So it does._

Besides noting that Lord Mithros had evidently been watching this morning, a part of Taren’s mind was imagining what Lord Avinar’s report on all this might look like, but when Kel and her party reached the gibbet his breath caught yet again. Queen Barzha and Lord Hebakh perched on the crossbar, peering down. The corpse had to be Anna of Nicoline, disfigured by crows but oddly dignified in death, and Kel’s eyes were dark with pity as she reined in beside the body, stilling it with one hand. She gestured to an ogre before leaning forward to speak briefly to Alder, grasping the body, and standing in her stirrups as the ogre reached up to slide open the noose and free the mottled head, then took the body gently from Kel’s hold.

“Back to New Hope, Lady Kel?”

“Yes. We’ll bury her and the others tomorrow. A fine Nameday celebration for Lalasa and Merric that will be.”

“They will be proud when they are old enough to hear the tale, Lady Kel.”

She gave the ogre a warm smile. “That’s a kind thought, Paliaju. Thank you.” Kel frowned. “Mmm. Stay close with her, please. I have a notion it might matter.” Her face became a mask. “We must get on, anyway. Your Royal Highness, I am, as Lord Ventnor says, acting beyond formal law, but I will not have my justice in doubt. Be ready to swear to your witness by gods’ oath, please. Alanna, is he awake yet?”

“He is, Kel.” Sir Alanna stood by a blinking but conscious Lord Biron, held from behind by Seniaju. “And before you ask, in my judgement as a healer, the blade slash on his hand happened yesterday, the nail scratches on his face within the last hour.”

“So noted.”

Kel waited while the detached group of Scanrans escorted a dozen dusty men and women from Aussonne towards them, stopping ten yards away. Fear and bewilderment blended on their faces.

“People of Aussonne, I am Guildmaster Countess Keladry of New Hope and Mindelan, and we came here because Lord Biron assailed the House of Conté by kidnapping its daughter and killing its subjects, and in so doing both offended the Craftsbeings’ Guild and committed high treason against King Lewis. You are brought here to bear witness to the Guild’s justice. Your Royal Highness?”

“We were riding peacefully when we were attacked without warning. Our mage, Master Fellon, was killed, and fourteen soldiers, with another mortally wounded. We were brought to Aussonne and separated, but my Lady-in-Waiting, Anna of Nicoline, was allowed to stay with me. We ate in our room, and afterwards Lord Biron came with his brothers Lord Julian and Lord Etenne. All were drunk, and boasting in their cups. Lord Biron claimed to be the firstborn son of King Lewis, and his rightful heir despite bastardy. He intended forced marriage to me to secure his claim, and decided to anticipate all vows. Anna defended me and sliced his hand open. He was enraged, and after the bleeding was staunched he and his brothers brought us out here and hanged Anna. There were soldiers too, but they only obeyed. Lord Biron ordered her death. She was seventeen. Today I was left alone until there was a great rumbling, and a few minutes later Lord Biron and Lord Julian burst in, locking the door behind them, and he tried again to consummate the marriage he wanted. He tore my dress, but I scratched his face and managed to get behind the bed, as you found me. I, Lianne of Conté, do swear by all gods that I have spoken truth.”

She made the circle and chimes sounded, sweet and mellow. No god that Taren could see so much as moved a muscle, and he wondered how it worked. The Aussonnians started, looking around. Kel merely nodded.

“Lord Biron, by testimony given under gods’ oath, you are guilty of the ambush of an embassy, murdering sixteen ; of abducting and twice seeking to rape Her Royal Highness Princess Lianne of Conté ; and when Lady Anna of Nicoline rightly and stoutly defended her against your drunken lechery, of ordering and witnessing Anna’s murder. Can you deny any of this, swearing by gods’ oath?”

“It was not murder.” Lord Biron’s voice was slurred, but he spoke in Common and his words could be made out. “She stabbed me! I am the rightful heir, so to assail me is treason.”

Kel stared at him. “A foolish and specious claim, Lord Biron. The heir is Crown Prince Loup, and no Tortallan can be guilty of treason against any Gallan. In law, had Anna _not_ defended Her Royal Highness she would have committed treason. She was not your lieger, nor your subject, and did her sworn duty. She was not yours to judge.”

“And I am not yours.”

“The right you claimed was victor’s tyranny, and I claim it in turn.” Kel’s voice was deadly flat, and Lord Biron flushed. “Beyond power, I also claim three rights in law to judge you, Biron of Aussonne — as Guildmaster of the Craftsbeings, whose future your act of war imperilled, reacting in its defence : as a Countess and General Officer Commanding of Tortall, oath-sworn and duty-bound to the House of Conté, whose daughter you wantonly stole and assailed, and whose subjects you have caused to be murdered, reacting to your offences and crimes ; and as Clanchief Hléoburh, who counts Sir Esmond of Nicoline, brother of Anna whom you murdered, as a friend, and claims bloodright in her death and desecration. And as your actions plainly constitute high treason against King Lewis, you can claim no protection under Gallan law. Ebony, is Lord Mithros on the ridge?”

“Yes. War god hears.”

“It’s not the war bit we want, Ebony.” Kel turned Alder to face the ridge, stood in her stirrups, and bowed. “Lord Mithros, if you approve the justice I claim, I pray you to make it known.”

Taren’s was not the only head that turned, and Lord Mithros scowled, then flicked a hand. Chimes sounded again, with that fury of battle loud behind them, and Kel bowed again.

“Thank you, my lord. Positives are so much easier.”

Lord Mithros snorted again, scowl fading, and Taren caught a glint in Lord Diamondflame’s visible eye. In the window wonder eclipsed fear on the faces of the Aussonians.

“Biron of Aussonne, for treasonably seizing and seeking to rape Her Royal Highness Princess Lianne of Conté, for the treasonable murder by ambush of sixteen members of the Tortallan embassy, and for the treasonable murder of another, Anna of Nicoline, you will be hanged by the neck until you shall be dead, even as you hanged Anna, and I do not ask the Black God to have the least mercy on your soul.”

Kel swung herself off Alder while Lord Biron blinked, and others drew deep breaths. She walked round to face the warhorse, drawing his head down to rest against hers, her voice so soft Taren thought only the window allowed it to carry, and for the first time felt that he heard something he shouldn’t.

“He has to die, Alder, boy, and as Anna did. Do you mind?”

Alder snorted, slobbering a little on Kel’s shoulder, and she stroked his neck. Lord Diamondflame’s head turned.

_Your brother of death comes._

Lord Mithros nodded. “Of course he does.”

Taren blinked, but Kel had already straightened.

“Thank you, Alder. Seniaju, bind his hands and get him mounted and noosed, please.”

“Lady Kel.”

“You cannot hang me!”

“Why not, Lord Biron?” He stared. “The moment you laid violent hands on a Princess of the House of Conté your life was forfeit. Your brothers Etenne and Julian have preceded you. Carry on, Seniaju.”

The ogre did, hoisting the struggling lord onto Alder’s saddle, and a second stepped forward to seat the noose. To one side silver flared, and Kel turned as a hooded shape appeared, one arm round the shoulders of a slender figure. Anna’s spirit was unmarred, and her expression showed both joyous satisfaction and bitter rage. A deep silence fell as most mortals went to their knees, including the Aussonnians. Kel only bowed, and Princess Lianne took a step forward with a sob. Anna looked up at the cowled god and wind soughed though the silence.

“You may go to her, but neither speak nor touch. Protector, I would talk with you.”

Anna gave a little bow before crossing to stand before the Princess, smiling and pointing to Kel, walking towards the Black God.

“Oh gods, Anna, I’m so sorry I couldn’t save you. Forgive me.”

Anna nodded, then went to stand briefly before her own corpse in Paliaju’s arms, returning the ogre’s nod before shrugging and going to stand by an unspooked Alder as Kel stopped before the Black God, bowing and looking into the darkness beneath his hood.

“Thank you for this grace, my lord. How may I serve you?”

“Anna is seen only because I will it, garnishing your achievements this day, but if you would still cleanse Rathhausak, I will grant you the power to see and send to me souls yet astray and sundered here. But I caution you, for it is a gift that once given cannot be taken back.”

“You mean I will always see the sundered?”

“Yes.”

“And can send them to you?”

“Yes.”

Kel’s face was still. “Are there many sundered, my lord?”

“Too many, but none at your Citadel. Dabeyoun brought in the mage and soldiers slain yesterday.”

Kel nodded with a rueful look. “Thank you, and to Dabeyoun. This is a burden, then, yet Rathhausak must be cleansed. I accept your gift, my lord.”

“Ain’t that Ma all over.”

Tobeis’s voice was a mutter, and Taren didn’t think Piers was too happy about it either, but they could not stop the smooth-skinned hand that rested on Kel’s shoulder, nor the stoop for unseen lips to kiss her forehead as silver gleamed.

“You may share the gift of vision at need, briefly, in like manner, but not the power of command.”

Kel had frozen for a second, eyes closed, but nodded at his words before rotating her head and opening them again.

“You bear so much for us all, of your grace.”

“You are no burden, Keladry, and your prayers ease mine. Be assured the Gallan mage died as the walls fell, and send his master to me now, for I am ever needed elsewhere.”

“My lord.” She bowed again, and turned. “Alder.”

The great warhorse bucked and bolted a half-dozen steps, and it was over. Taren heard Lord Biron’s neck break, saw the avid looks of the stormwings, and shuddered with Var and Sam. Their hands clasped, breaths catching as a pale spirit slipped free of the swinging body and stumbled clear, blinking bewilderment. Anna marched across, and with a look of infinite scorn seized the dead lord’s hand and swung him round to pitch at the Black God’s feet. He looked up, face suddenly fearful, and vanished at a wave of one smooth hand. Anna came back to the god’s side, silver flared, and they were gone.

“Everyone’s in a giving mood today, it seems.” Lord Mithros sounded reflective, the battle-fury still distant.

_As well we might be. The eddy has vanished with that death._

“Yes. Your speed was timely.”

_I had no thought of it until the Protector asked, but I could see she sensed a possibility. The Timeway has taken to her imprint._

“It seems to like her, absurd as that is. At least she’s sensible.”

_And is about to be more so._

Kel had stilled the body, face a mask, and turned to Var’istaan. “Petrify him, please — the whole thing, gibbet, rope, and body, with a footing, in that stone that resists all weathering, if you can.”

“Lady Kel.”

Basilisks looked at one another, and set about it, gibbet and footing first, the stormwings hastily flapping away. Kel stood about ten feet in front of the body, ignoring them to scrape a patch of earth clear of straggling grasses with her boot, and began to write on it with her glaive. The view in the window shifted, and Taren read the words in Common as they formed while the rock spell shrieked and thundered.

**HERE HANGS LORD BIRON OF AUSSONNE**

**WHO SOUGHT TO STEAL A THRONE**

**BY MURDER, KIDNAP, RAPE, AND BOAST.**

**THE STONE RECORDS HIS FATE.**

“Petrify this as well, please, Var’istaan. Obsidian.”

“Poetry in Common now, as well as Yamani, and preserved for the ages. Clever, too.”

Lord Mithros sounded approving, Piers grunted agreement, and Taren thought the cleverness they appreciated was probably making Lord Biron’s principal crime treason, by definition against King Lewis, as well as the terrible warning petrified body and inscription would represent, but his own appreciation was distinct.

“ _The stone records his fate_. Not just him, echoing those Stone Fools in Yaman, but the walls and barbican, and those gates. The whole thing’s been a song of stone, through and for Kel.”

He spoke softly, only to Sam and Var, but found Lord Mithros looking straight at him, eyes fathomless, and stars spun in his mind.

“Now _that_ is astute, Lord of Stone Mountain. You grow into your title.” The starry gaze went to Sam, then Var, and Taren felt them stiffen, realising he was holding himself rigidly upright. “You have all done well, and have my blessing.” Stars swirled and faded. “And tell your father I prefer quality to quantity in prayer, and deeds to words. What _is_ the use of hermits, anyway?”

Taren could not stop a laugh, and Lord Mithros smiled back. His sense of benison overflowed, Kel’s example danced in his mind, and he bowed.

“With pleasure, my lord, though if he heeds me it will be a first. But Varia has a marvellous idea for a new temple at Stone Mountain, so perhaps you could tell him yourself when we dedicate it.”

The god laughed, shaking his head. “More than Keladry’s good sense is catching, it seems. Maybe I will at that.”

“I am glad you are in a good mood, brother.” The Great Goddess’s hounds were also more distant than they had been. “Be in it some more, for Keladry is coming.”

“Mortals! What does she want now?”

Looking to the window again, Taren saw the basilisks were done, the newly black body bizarrely still on its rigid rope, inscription gleaming as light caught petrified sillion raised by the glaive’s blade. Aussonnians crowded round it, staring, while all New Hopers and freed were headed to join the other freed and their rescuers, save Kel and her Scanrans, riding diagonally up the ridge towards them. The window vanished and Kel became directly visible, only a few hundred yards away and looking up at the gods strung along the ridgeline. They were watching her, too, and when Lord Weiryn and the Green Lady beside him lifted hands in salute she returned it, with the sketched bow riding allowed. An old man — Lord Sakuyo, Taren guessed — gave her a wide smile and a little bow of his own, and she smiled and nodded back, though Taren didn’t think the smile reached her eyes. Her gaze also raked mortals, lingering a little on Master Sternross, still slack-faced, then on pale Junior, before taking in the Prince and Princess, Lord Ferghal and General Vanget, and her assorted kin, lingering again on a staring Lord Avinar, and ending with her father and Tobe. When she pulled up before Lords Mithros and Diamondflame, Tobe gave Junior a stern instruction not to move one feather, and went forward to take Alder’s reins as she dismounted ; the Scanrans all dismounted too, going to one knee beside their horses.

“Thank you, Tobe. All well?”

Her voice had lost its flatness, though edges remained

“We’re good, Ma, though Junior got himself scolded white. Are you alright?”

“Glad it’s over, but yes. And anything that subdues Junior is welcome.” She climbed the slope, gave a general bow, one hand extended, to the gods along the ridgeline, nodded to Lord Diamondflame, and went to one knee before Lord Mithros and the Great Goddess before rising to look at both of them.

“My lord, my lady. Did you enjoy the show?”

Even as he heard it, Taren knew he would never forget or be able to describe Kel’s tone, irony and pain layered with sorrow and satisfaction, relief and curiosity.”

“All did, Keladry, and you have stilled the Timeway’s eddy.”

“Have I? Good. I hoped that idiot’s death had done the trick, but it’s nice to be certain, for once.”

“You do not lack certainty. And in so far as it was a siege at all, you have set an all-time record for speed.”

Lord Mithros sounded amused, and Kel shrugged.

“Well, that’s something, I suppose, but as to certainty, try it from my perspective, my lord. Anyway, besides paying my respects, and thanking you for those chimes, which I do, I came to ask if aught else should be done to ensure this justice is sufficient to forestall war. I know you like both, but the children don’t.”

“There will be no war, Keladry. Lewis of Barbonne is not foolish, as mortal kings go, and however he may be mortified his rage will be with the dead. He will also be sensibly afraid when he sees what you have done, and gladly take the escape you have cleverly offered him.”

“Good again, and thank you, my lord. That is helpful. I have to wait on the stormwings, so I’ll leave him a note as well.”

“You have a writing-case in your armour?”

Kel blinked. “In my saddlebag, my lord. I knew stone would speak, but it’s not very articulate about how Princess Lianne will proceed.” Her gaze went to the Crown Prince and Princess, then her father. “I thought King Lewis and Prince Loup should be invited to New Hope, Roald. You and Lianne will be there, and your father and Thayet can come if they want. And after _this_ , Papa, I believe we want home advantage.”

Piers nodded immediately. “Quite right, my dear. King Lewis has a deal of explaining to do. Your Royal Highness?”

Roald nodded too. “Yes. And thank you, Kel, with all my heart. If Lianne had …”

“I know.” She turned back to Lord Mithros and the Great Goddess. “Was there anything more, my lord, my lady?”

“Not unless you wish to scold me further about Chaos-taint.”

Kel gave the god a very old-fashioned look. “Not particularly, my lord. I’m sorry about that, but I have had it up to here with necromancers, and a Chaos-tainted one was the last straw.” She frowned. “Does raw Chaos attract or repel Chaos-taint?”

“It may do either. Why?”

“I had a dream of gods and dragons flying over Scanra, trailing bound Chaos-creatures, but I couldn’t tell if they were attracting the taint or just stirring it up so you could see it and scoop it up some other way.”

Lord Mithros stared, something tautened in Lord Diamondflame, and Taren had an abrupt conviction the dragon was stifling laughter.

“It’s an idea. Of sorts. Chaos-taint is no easy problem, Keladry, but it is true you have seen much of it for a mortal. An effort will be made.”

“Excellent. Thank you, my lord. Oh, and do please warn me if you decide to do it like that, so I can warn the Scanrans, or you’ll scare half the nation silly.”

 _If the gods do not, Protector, we will._ Taren’s conviction deepened. _The stormwings come._

Kel turned, considering the strange sight of fifteen stormwings each bearing a dangling corpse, wings beating hard and Cloestra above them in her tunic. As the first body was taken by waiting soldiers she nodded and turned back.

“So that’s done. Good. I must write that note, if you’ll excuse me, my lord, my lady.”

“Try this.”

Lord Mithros waved a hand, silver flashed, and a lectern appeared, complete with paper, quill, inkpot, and sealing wax. Kel looked at it, then at the god, eyebrows high.

“Well, _that’s_ useful. Thank you, my lord.” Without more ado she turned a sheet of paper to a convenient angle, took the quill — an oddly dull brown feather Taren supposed a sunbird’s — thought briefly, and began to write. After a moment she spoke without looking up. “I should have realised you’d be the god of clerks as well, my lord.”

“I am no such thing!”

The fury of battle was back in Lord Mithros’s voice but Kel kept writing.

“Aren’t you, my lord? You should be, then. Neither war nor justice would get far without them. And you could get a fair godly boost from their worship, surely? There are plenty of them, for all there are never enough to hand.”

Lord Diamondflame was very still indeed, but a slight snort escaped Lady Skysong. Taren very much wanted to look at Lord Avinar’s face, and did glance down to see Master Sternross’s stupor at last give way to gaping astonishment, but Lord Mithros’s expression was the compelling one, as if Kel were a mortal he didn’t quite believe in. Beside him the Great Goddess’s face was also suspiciously still, starry eyes very bright.

“She has a point, brother. Two, even.”

“Don’t you start.” Lord Mithros shook his head. “Clerks, yet.”

“Yes, clerks, my lord. Most essential people.” Kel considered what she had written, and nodded. “A bit bare, but it’ll do.”

She signed, and slid the sheet aside, squaring a second.

“Another note?”

“A copy, my lord, for King Jonathan.”

Lord Mithros again waved a hand and the note duplicated. Kel blinked.

“Thank you again, my lord. A _huge_ godly boost, if you shared _that_ spell.” She folded one note, wrote the direction, took a signet from a tunic pocket, and lifted the sealing wax. “Kit, your usual skill?”

The dragonet bounced over, looked up, and concentrated. A tiny lick of flame touched wax and a fat drop fell, Kel striking the impression.

“Thank you, Kit.”

“That’s good control.” Lord Mithros eyed the dragonet, who returned the favour. “You’re being very quiet.”

_I have practiced a great deal. And I am not scolding you, god Mithros, because you are for once being helpful rather than annoying. Is it not nicer for all when you are so?_

She bounced back to her place, and Kel folded the copy, tucking it into a pocket with the signet before looking at Lord Diamondflame.

“I’ll just deliver this, my lord, and we can be off.”

_Allow me, Protector. I would be gone also._

There was a strangely muffled quality to Lord Diamondflame’s mindvoice, making Kel frown and Taren think of a mortal stuffing hand in mouth to forestall convulsive laughter, but the ball of glittering blue-black magic that formed round the sealed note arced with precision to the crowd at the petrified gibbet, hovered a moment, and descended.

_The oldest of your witnesses has it, Protector, and promises to deliver it in person when Lewis of Barbonne comes._

“Thank you, my lord. One more help in your long tally. And thank you all for coming, my lord, my lady, all High Ones. I appreciate the vote of confidence, I think. Farewell.”

“Oh we do, Keladry, and the better for your actions this day. Fare you well, also.”

She bowed and remounted, releasing Tobe with murmured thanks to scamper back to stand by Junior, and ordering the Scanrans to remount.

“Back to the road now, New Hope.”

_We will assist their steps, Protector. Farewell, god Mithros and all gods. I will contact you regarding that matter of prophecy._

“Do that, dragon Diamondflame. With so little war about I shall look forward to it.”

Taren and Sam pulled Master Sternross upright, clapped his helmet on his head, and continued to grasp his hands as the same magic made descent as swift as ascent had been. Lord Diamondflame’s aid extended to Alder and the Scanrans’ horses, who were less impressed by it than Taren, but with some snorting and neighing they were soon lined up, in double column, with all others on the same broad front as before. Taren and Sam relinquished Master Sternross to the care of a stone-faced Lord Avinar, with relief. Dragon magic glittered, an archway opened and broadened, and within moments they were back on New Hope’s soil, stormwings gliding above and Junior firmly on foot, less than two hours after they had left, to receive tumultuous applause as Princess Lianne was seen with the other freed, though the horses bearing corpses made cheers falter. Prince Roald was walking with Princess Shinkokami beside his sister’s mount, and as Kel slipped Alder alongside, excited sparrows circling, Taren strained to hear.

“We need to get you to the spellmirror. Your parents will be waiting. But thank Diamondflame and Rainbow, please. Without them, nothing.”

Princess Lianne nodded, face tight, and Prince Roald looked across at her, then at his wife, flicking his head. The three royals followed Kel, Princess Lianne dismounting before Lords Diamondflame and Rainbow, standing together.

“Thank you, my lords, most sincerely.” Princess Lianne swallowed and curtsied deeply, the others echoing her. “I have never been so scared in my life, nor so angry. And I knew no-one could help me in time. But you brought Kel, and Anna rejoiced at it. I know it can mean nothing, but I bless you, all of you. The House of Conté acknowledges its debt.”

“Yes, it does, my lords.” Prince Roald’s voice was tight. “Had Lord Biron defiled my sister we would face bloody war, yet again. I cannot speak for my father, but I will remember what we owe your grace.”

“Truly so, my lords. This one cannot fathom it, but I honour you most sincerely.”

Princess Shinkokami’s voice quavered, and Lord Rainbow seemed to regard her with blind eyes.

_Do not fear us, Shinkokami noh Takuji of Conté, nor the gods’ concern with the Protector. It is a matter for rejoicing. And you are all welcome. Our aid was given freely, and incurs no debt. The day has not lacked interest, nor entertainment. Protector, we will be here tomorrow for the nameday, the funerals, and to talk with the stormwings, but do excuse us now — if Diamondflame does not begin to dance soon I believe he may burst, and I feel much the same, as do many. Farewell, for now._

Both dragons had been coiled tightly and leaped into the air, wings blurring ; downdrafts buffeted everyone as all adults followed, gaining height swiftly and beginning to spiral around and among one another, trailing streamers of fire around which others curved, adding streamers of their own. Head tilted back, Taren saw but could not name the patterns they made, curving geometries of fire and flight, and some part of his mind wondered if Var could until he heard Kel sigh her wonder, and his heart bubbled.

“They dance so beautifully, and I can’t stay to watch. Ebony, at least one other darking can see them?”

“Many. Beautiful. We show later.”

“Good. Come on, Roald. Your parents will be beside themselves.”

The royals dragged themselves away in Kel’s wake, followed by an equally reluctant Sir Alanna, Baron George, Lord Imrah, and the Dukes, sparrows circling, and all heads turned up. Taren’s head swivelled as the adult griffins shrieked command from above, and a hangdog Junior flapped meekly into a climb to be bracketed by them and escorted away. He found Tobe beside him, also looking up, with Lady Skysong beyond, a wistful look on her face.

“Taren, did you think Diamondflame was _laughing_?”

“Fit to burst, Tobe. Lord Rainbow as good as said so.” He met the boy’s eyes. “Me too, in truth. Your Ma did tell Lord Mithros he should be the god of clerks.”

“Well, he should. I’ve seen how vital they are. And those Gallan lords were awful. Ma did right. What happened was just, but why is it funny?”

“I don’t think I can explain very sensibly, Tobe. It’s the incongruity. Your Ma talks to gods almost as if they were, I don’t know, fellow commanders, maybe, and they don’t mind. It floored Master Sternross, and I’ll bet it’s bent your Uncle Avinar right out of shape. It also makes dragons laugh, so it has to be a good thing, right?”

“I guess.” Tobe regarded him suspiciously for a moment before looking up again. “The dance is beautiful, not funny.”

“I think they may be the same, Tobe, from a dragon’s perspective.”

“Huh. I’ll ask Kit about that when she’s less distracted.”

“Do. Meanwhile, we could see better, without cricking our necks, if we just lay down.”

“That’s a thought.”

And they did, entranced by the nameless patterns, until the dragons had spiralled beyond mortal vision.

 

* * * * *

 

The remainder of the day was very odd indeed as news spread through New Hope, leaving people at once joyous at the recovery of the Princess and her retinue, and the aversion of war, yet sorrowful and angry for the dead while grimly satisfied at the fate of their killers, bewildered and wondering at the strangeness of it all, peacock-proud of Lady Kel, and thoughtful, if not entirely soberly, about the rippling effects her actions would have. Kel did not reappear, but Dom came out after a while to say food would be served in the messhall, and would family and guests kindly fend for themselves? Taren managed a word, being reassured that Kel was fine but, having spoken with Sir Esmond and his parents, who had all been in Corus and urgently summoned to the palace, would be staying with the twins ; Taren thought of three dead brothers and those who had died when walls and barbican fell, of Anna’s spirit and the Black God’s gift, and asked no more. Nor were Prince Roald or Princess Lianne to be seen, but when Princess Shinkokami appeared, trailed by two maids, Taren gathered that, after long conversations with their own and Anna’s parents, Lianne was sleeping, Roald writing an account of what he had witnessed while it was fresh in his mind, and the other freed also sleeping, having received healers’ attentions. Daine was with her, looking pensive, and Taren realised he had no idea if she had watched or not.

“No, I stayed to talk to the new darkings, Taren. Someone had to, I’ve seen enough war, and have no desire ever to return to Galla. I did see Button show the walls coming down, though, which was interesting.”

“To say the least. Numair should be proud.”

“He’s pleased, yes, but also grieving Master Fellon, who was more helpful than most mages when he came here from Carthak. Did Master Sternross really faint at Mithros’s feet?”

“Prostrated himself and froze, certainly. It was only mortal irony, not divine, but spectacular all the same.”

“How do you know it was only mortal, Lord Taren? And how can you be so calm about it when all is so very disturbing?”

Taren considered Princess Shinkokami, whose voice was sharper than it might be, and spoke carefully.

“Did you hear Lord Mithros’s remark, Your Royal Highness? He looked down at Master Sternross and said _Your timing is reason enough to deny you, whoever you are_.” Daine grinned but said nothing. “I did not think he was being ironic. But Master Sternross has been … exercised, shall I say, ever since I’ve been here, thinking Kel impious because she is not, by his lights, proper in her piety. Then the High One turned up, to see and admire what Kel was doing, and Master Sternross fell flat on his face, too stupefied to address the god he claims to champion with any manners at all. His foolishness made for an irony before the gods, but not of them.”

The princess nodded, face still. “That is clear, thank you. His likeness to Blessed Lord Hidetaki is most confusing, but Lord Sakuyo knew what that one would do, where this one intruded on Lord Mithros.”

“He did, yes. As to being calm, Your Royal Highness, I don’t always feel so, but what’s the use of fussing? Forgive me, but I understand you have been … distressed, of late, by new knowledge of the gods.”

“I have, Lord Taren. Blessed Piers and Blessed Honoured Ilane tell me I should not be, but to reunderstand my whole life is not so easy.”

“Nor wondering why your best Tortallan friend is so very blessed?”

“I am not jealous. It is that Chisakami died to make all this possible, and I rejoiced to be freed from my first betrothal. Did she die because Most Blessed Keladry befriended _me_? And had she befriended  _her_ , would I have died in that earthquake?”

Taren had to think through what he knew of the history involved, but once he did so the core of her problem made good sense to him. He cogitated for a moment, while the Princess’s stare challenged him.

“Those questions I cannot answer, Your Royal Highness, as you know full well. But I do understand. I rejoiced with my siblings when our half-brother Joren died, celebrated the deaths of all those traitors, and was incredulous when our father stepped aside — only to find now that all our suffering made us able to be what we are, and to take the chances those deaths offered. I cannot know, but I think you may be confusing the gods with the Timeway.”

She frowned. “How so, Lord Taren?”

“The gods know much but not all, for they acknowledge they wait on the Timeway.” She nodded. “I do not believe they caused that earthquake” — though stone might have sung it — “nor that they ordered or influenced the elemental of the Chamber to kill Joren, only that they are swift to take advantage of what the Timeway brings, and their advantage was also yours, as it was mine.”

She nodded again, eyes intent on him. “This I can see.”

“And you wonder at their choosing Kel, as all do. But I have come to think that is also them taking advantage. Clearly, many chances, and her own determination, placed her at the heart of the Timeway’s roil, so much so that it attended to her. Lord Mithros seemed to think it _liked_ her, somehow, and Lord Diamondflame said she was _of the roil, long years in the making and filled with sudden currents in the being_. So I suspect the gods did not so much choose her, as bet on her, and won, handsomely. And now to walk with her is to walk with the gods. Should we not accept it?”

“Mortals should not walk with the gods at all. We are below them, not beside them.”

“Ah. And if they choose to walk beside us?”

She had no ready answer, and Daine rested a hand on her shoulder.

“Gods are always fair strange, but he has a point, you know, Shinko. Kel didn’t presume — she was presumed on.”

“That may be so, Daine, but she speaks to the High Ones as if they were but lords. It is not right.”

“Perhaps not, Your Royal Highness, but if they do not admonish her for it, how should any mortal presume to do so?” Her mouth shut with a snap, eyes troubled. “And she misses your friendship badly.”

“It is not easy, my lord. I should visit Lord Ventnor. Duke Baird insisted he stay in the infirmary tonight.”

She left, trailing her maids, and Daine sighed.

“I have some sympathy, but it’s fading. She should try finding out one parent was a god and the other’s just become one.”

“Was it very bad?” Taren had often wondered.

“Not really, but it brought more questions than it answered. I had my magic, though, and being with the People is very soothing. They’re much more practical than two-leggers.”

“Huh. Kel was pretty practical today, even with the Black God.”

“So I gathered. I knew she was bothered about Rathhausak, but he must be too.”

“I don’t think he likes anyone being sundered, but I confess I wondered if it was another dig at Lord Mithros about tidying up.”

Daine grinned. “There’s a thought. But Mithros said he’d make an effort?”

“He did, yes, though that was before Kel called him the god of clerks. Tobe agrees, by the way. You heard about Lady Skysong’s comment?”

“I did, bless her.”

They looked at one another and had a hard time not laughing aloud, made worse when a cheerful Sir Alanna stopped to ask what they were up to.

“Trying not to have a fit of giggles, mostly.” Daine shook her head. “Mithros said Kit was being very quiet, and she told him she wasn’t scolding him because he was for once being helpful, and wasn’t that nicer for everyone?”

“Quite right, and good for her. And he _was_ being uncommonly helpful. The Timeway thing, I suppose, which really does seem to be down to Kel. Who knew you could nip eddies in the bud? Then again, the Black God was uncommonly helpful too, and that felt like grace. Second time I know of he’s brought a victim’s spirit to see Kel execute their killer. I wonder if he does that for other victims.”

“Rogal was the first, Sir Alanna? Or Sir Merric, rather?”

“Yes. But do drop the Sir, at least this evening. It’s far too nice for honourifics.”

Taren blinked. “It is?”

“You bet it is. Kel’s worked a military and political miracle on no notice at all, and poor Anna and the other dead aside, it was _fun_. Righteous, swift, and _very_ satisfying. Like the sortie that ended the siege, but without all the slogging first, and I was too woozy from Baird’s healing to enjoy myself properly then. Tonight I’m going to make up for it. The ogres have invited the Scanrans to _The Mortal Surprise_ , so I’ll probably end up there, if I don’t get sidetracked. Want to come?”

Taren thought about it, very briefly. “No, thanks all the same.”

“Chicken.”

“Certainly. My head is not that hard. And the Nameday ceremony is at dawn.”

“That, yes.” Alanna sobered. “Kel would far rather do funerals first, but Jon, Thayet, and Anna’s family, including some ancients, want to attend by spellmirror, so they have to be later.”

“Does the family know dragons are coming?”

“Kel did mention it, but I doubt they took it in.”

“Do you understand why? I was surprised.”

“Who knows with dragons? But after this morning I think they wouldn’t miss young Lalasa’s naming because she’s Kel’s heir, probably as Guildmaster as well as Countess, and as Kel has to conduct the funerals they’d think it rude not to attend those too.”

“Oh. Right. That makes sense. I mean no slight, but the dead didn’t seem reason enough.”

“They probably wouldn’t be on their own, though Diamondflame is always courteous.” Daine waggled a hand. “But it’s the apprentices, also. I could see Icefall and Steelsings were bored silly ten years back, but it never occurred to me that I could do anything about it. And I’d bet Diamondflame and Rainbow saw it long ago, and others, but while the Isolationists held sway there wasn’t anything much they could do. I’d also bet they enjoyed Kel telling Moonwind off even more than I did.”

“She was an isolationist?”

“She was, yes, and still thinks mortals are a good deal more trouble than we’re worth, though Kel’s been working on it.” Daine grinned. “And I must find out why she wants Jadewing here. Won’t that be something?”

“Surely. Lord Diamondflame seemed pleased about it. I wondered if Lady Icefall missed him, because she’s so young.”

“She does, and that’ll be in there. But these days Kel tends to have almost as many reasons for doing something as gods.”

“Yes. It’s absurd, I know, but I almost thought she was looking out for Lord Jadewing, as if his, um, well, not being the sharpest dragon in the box, she once said, made him someone she ought to protect.”

Alanna hooted. “Oh, that’s good, Taren. And spot on, I’ll bet. Only Kel could count the largest dragon there is as one of her small.”

“She said he was rather sweet, when you got to know him.”

And he had been, Taren thought, remembering the great dragon’s humility about not being as clever as he was large, but Alanna only gurgled laughter, said in a surprisingly good imitation of Kel “ _Do_ please mind your tail, my lord. Mortals break so easily.”, and doubled over, slapping her thigh. Daine was laughing too, and Taren left them to it ; it  _was_ funny, but not only funny, and he had at least one duty to attend to. Spotting Sam and Var talking to Kawit and Cloestra on the terrace, he looked for Sir Voelden, finding him by the flagpole with Captain Uinse, Lord Ferghal and General Vanget, Piers, Sir Anders, Sir Inness, and Dom, discussing practical consequences. The King and Queen would be on the road the day after tomorrow, and a messenger was already heading for Cría via Aussonne bearing a _very_ stiffly worded letter suggesting King Lewis and Prince Loup immediately accept Kel’s invitation to New Hope ; how large royal retinues might be was unknown, but space and security would be needed just the same. General Vanget and haMinchi troops would be waiting at the border, by way of escort, and Sir Voelden was involved because transfer of mining administration to Tirrsmont would have to be advanced to free up space at the Citadel. Younger Mindelans would be gently encouraged to depart more swiftly than they otherwise might, and those who remained required to share rooms ; more complicatedly, once King Lewis crossed the border (assuming he did), inbound pilgrims could be held at Mindelan to allow some of their dormitories to house whoever needed it. That in turn meant additional food might be needed at Mindelan, so any number of ducal orders were required to merchants, factors, and stewards, as well as wayhouse keepers, and Sir Inness would bear them. Taren’s attention sharpened.

“No, no, Anders, I’ll go. Kel’s happy I’m here, but she _needs_ you around for as long as you can be. I know she’s shrugging it off, but today makes nine executions she’s ordered in a month, and the gods alone know how many dead when those walls came down. Then there’s the Black God’s latest gift to her, on top of it all. She has to be hurting.”

“It’s not so bad, Inness.” Dom sighed and shrugged. “I could do without the, what, ghost-sight? But Kel’s been fretting about Rathhausak for months. Irnai had a vision of Zerhalm’s dead wife meeting the Black God, and was very clear it hadn’t happened yet, so knowing her among the sundered a background worry became urgent. And for all she’s sick of killing, the executions don’t bother her that much, given the crimes involved. And those bother her more.”

“Yes.” Piers blew out a breath. “I spoke to her at some length about the _Sekkinukesaku_ , Inness, on the voyage home, and she seemed quite content to have sent them to face the Black God’s Judges. Unferth’s wretched minions, too, and however her justice today was very summary, with Lord Mithros endorsing it no-one can argue it wasn’t just. Even in the moment, angry enough to flatten her voice in that terrifying way, she never stopped thinking politically and diplomatically.” He shook his head and noticed his auditor. “Did you need something, Taren?”

“Nothing urgent, Piers. I was looking for Sir Voelden, to introduce Sam and Var, but I’ll add that Sam and I will be happy to double up, and I’m sure Var would, too.”

“If we need to ask, we will, Tar.” Dom gave a weary shrug. “It’ll depend what retinue King Lewis brings, assuming he comes at all.”

“He will if he wants this marriage, Domitan, and he does.”

“Is it known if Lord Biron really was his bastard firstborn?”

“No. There have been rumours, but never any acknowledgement, and King Lewis does acknowledge one bastard daughter.” Piers spread his hands delicately. “I’ve never had much to do with Gallan affairs, but from what little I know it’s neither impossible nor thought very likely. I will say, though, that as Lord Biron was not acknowledged in life, I would be frankly astonished if he were to be so in death.”

“Me too. He looked very like his brother Etenne, if not so much like the other, Julian. When did he inherit? And is his mother still alive?”

“Pass, to both questions. I hope for her sake she isn’t. The King is bringing some of those who have been directly involved in negotiating the, um, presently very putative marriage, and they might know.” Piers rubbed his brow. “Kel had to be ruthlessly swift today, but it has left a lot of questions unanswered, and perhaps now unanswerable.

“We could ask Lord Diamondflame tomorrow what he knows, or might discover.” Taren shrugged lightly. “Or pray to know. Lord Diamondflame was very clear that the dragons didn’t want Kel tied up with what he called a ‘pointless mortal war’, and Lord Mithros didn’t disagree.”

“No, he didn’t, and that’s a thought, Taren. Thank you.” Piers acquired an introspective look. “Though I can’t say I relish the prospect of asking Lord Diamondflame anything. He obviously likes Kel, and tolerates other mortals, but I always feel so very young and silly talking to him.”

“Deputise Tobe. He doesn’t bat an eyelid at dragons.”

Sir Anders laughed, Sir Inness smiled, and Piers blinked.

“That’s true, Taren, but it doesn’t seem quite fair. And Kel wouldn’t like me adding to Tobeis’s burdens.”

Sir Anders laughed again. “What you mean, Papa, is that Tobe will ask straight out and accept any refusal without demur, which goes against your diplomatic grain.”

Piers gave his eldest son a severe look but didn’t deny it, and Taren suppressed a smile.

“I’ll ask him, Piers, if I get the chance. I was supposed to talk to him today before we were so rudely interrupted. But isn’t it all King Lewis’s problem now?”

“It is, Taren, but unless he deals with it thoroughly and promptly it will be ours too, especially if there’s anyone in his retinue complicit with this outrage.”

“Mmm. Though assuming any such to have the least sense, a list of those who refused to come when asked might be more revealing.”

“Indeed. But we have to wait on the event, either way. And unless anyone has anything else, I think we’ve done all we can for now. I’ll get started on those letters, Inness. And I fear much will fall to you, Sir Voelden, in this upheaval.”

“It’s no problem, Your Grace, only getting on with it. And given what we might have been facing, I count us all fortunate men tonight, by your daughter’s grace.”

“I know it. It is a vastly smaller political mess than it might have been, but still a mess.”

“Or perhaps only a muddle.” Taren shrugged. “Lord Mithros was clear King Lewis will gratefully accept that Lord Biron rightly died for treason against _him_ , as well as being _sensibly afraid_ when he sees what’s left of Aussonne. And I imagine he’ll spend the night before he gets here at Dragonstown?”

“Oh yes.” Dom gave him a smile. “We’ll get Mikal and the liegers to put on an especially stone-faced show for his and Prince Loup’s benefit. Clan Nihthelm, too, as Kel claimed Clanchief’s blooddebt, and I had Jorvik and Ragnar watching the darking show. It had a salutary effect on recalcitrant Beorhtscyldings, I believe.”

Taren would bet it had, and as the gathering broke up and he went with Sir Voelden towards the terrace he tried to tally the number of birds Kel and Dom had between them managed to — he laughed to himself — hit with one stone, or at any rate one curtain wall and a four-stage barbican. But it was all of a piece — Kel was what she was, and did what she did, and the three realms adjusted themselves to it, much as when she pattern danced with such balance she was still and the world moved around her. He mentioned the thought to Sir Voelden, and was pleased to elicit a laugh.

“Pretty much, my lord, from what I’ve seen. And the gods looking on for the entertainment! I suppose one could say they were applauding Lady Kel, in a way.”

“Lord Mithros was admiring of her innovations in military practice. And the Black God said he let Anna’s spirit be seen _to garnish your achievements this day_.”

“He did?”

There was surprise in Sir Voelden’s voice, so Taren explained about the window and what he’d heard before they joined the group on the terrace, which had expanded to include Wuodan, tongue lolling, a pensive Lord Imrah, and a subdued Squire Lachran. Kawit was speaking of the pre-Thanic siege that had until today been the fastest, at fifty-six hours — successful infiltration over an earthen redoubt on the third night, Taren gathered — and the delightful improbability of beating its mark by more than fifty-five hours, but when she reached a pause he introduced Sam and Var to Sir Voelden, and their formal thanks, with Sir Voelden’s demurs, shifted the focus.

 _More false guilt laid down._ Wuodan regarded them with flameless eyes. _And some that was true atoned for. Another good day for the Protector._

“Atoned for, Wuodan?”

_Certainly, Voelden of New Hope. What shadows of treason against the House of Conté can survive such a recovery of its stolen daughter?_

“Oh. I suppose.” Sir Voelden frowned. “I wasn’t thinking about anything like that. And the archers were only more of Lady Kel’s belts and braces — none of us had to fire.”

“It makes no odds.” Cloestra grinned, a shrug making her newly impressive cleavage ripple. “You were there, as we were, however humble our capacities, so the Protector’s glory rubs off.”

Taren _had_ thought something like that, with ironic appreciation of a chance redemptively to serve the House of Conté while doing very little.

“You did more than me, Sir Voelden, yet as Cloestra says we benefit by association. And though Wuodan calls them false, it would be truer to say our guilts were by association, so it balances out, after a fashion.”

_Guild by association is false guilt, Taren of Stone Mountain. We judge by deeds alone._

“With all respect—”

_Always a dangerous beginning._

Taren waved a hand. “Nevertheless, there are other factors. Take my father — innocent, by gods’ oath, of witting treason, but not wrongly tainted by association.”

_He was guilty of other deeds._

“Undoubtedly, but not therefore rightly innocent of what he _should_ have known, however unwitting he actually was.”

_Why do mortals always want to complicate things? One of the Protector’s delights is that she keeps things simple. But I grant you that not speaking and not acting may be deeds warranting judgement._

Kawit’s tail swished. _You would call today’s events simple, Wuodan?_

_Pleasingly so, Kawit. A princess was stolen, and a wall was in the way. The wall was removed, and the princess recovered._

_Hounds!_

Kawit sounded exasperated, and Lord Imrah’s face lightened.

“I’m afraid Kel would agree. The King said that in Yaman she insisted she brought simplicity to a complex situation, however she involved many immortals and the Wild Hunt, and today fits that bill, in its own way.”

_There you go, Kawit. The Protector is sensible as well as pleasing in her simplicity of action._

_A purity of purpose, Wuodan, not a simplicity of action. Consider the stormwings — to collect bodies to bury is simple, as was the means, yet nothing today was more complex than that marvellously unnatural event._

“You can leave us out of it.” Cloestra winked at Taren as Wuodan began a rejoinder. “Not that they will, when we’re being so interesting.”

“So you are, Cloestra. Lord Mithros thought so, too.”

“Did he? Well he should know.”

“Indeed. And Lord Diamondflame finds Kel’s, ah, stormwing reforms delightful.”

“He would. My tunic certainly is.”

“Yes indeed. How are you finding being clothed?”

Cloestra grinned and wriggled lasciviously, jiggling her cleavage. “Hot! And rather exciting. Who knew clothes had such uses?”

“Um, mortals?”

Cloestra’s laugh was loud but not a cackle, and as she returned to the argument Kawit and Wuodan were enjoying Taren thought stormwing reformation was proceeding on its own. His attention switched to Var and Sam, encouraging Lachran to talk, while Lord Imrah kept a sideways eye on all three. Realising today had been for the young man what the assault on Unferth’s redoubt had been for him and Sam, and sight of the newly dead found just as disturbing, Taren joined in, listening to a halting confession of horror as well as excitement, and offering assurances that he had felt much the same way.

“It’s so strange.” The burr in Lachran’s voice was stronger than Taren remembered. “I know what Aunt Kel did at Rathhausak, and in the siege. During my first months here as a squire no-one talked of anything else. But today it was all I could do not to disgrace myself.” His voice dropped. “If I’d had to see the hanging, I would have done, I think.”

“I did see it, and my stomach was certainly turning, Lachran, but it was too interesting not to watch.” Var frowned. “It wasn’t just the Black God, or the spirits, though they were _fascinating_. Lord Biron’s barely hit the ground before Anna’s grabbed him and threw him at the god’s feet, and he vanished. And her face! I’ve never seen such joy and rage together. But beyond all that, it was … I don’t know, the _agreement_ , maybe. Gods, mortals, and the dead were _all_ furious with him.”

“Kel was, Var, and Princess Lianne, and Anna’s spirit.” Sam frowned in turn. “I don’t think the Black God does fury, and Lord Mithros didn’t today, though he was content with the effects of Lord Biron’s death. It calmed the eddy in the Timeway, he said, whatever that really means.”

“If it’s a metaphor they all use the same one.” Var spread her hands. “And it means averting war. Wars, even — there would have been civil war in Galla as well as whatever Tortall would have done. And from what Lord Diamondflame said, the eddy was shrinking but it was only that last death that ended it, which makes sense if you imagine what his trial in Cría or Corus would have been like.”

Taren nodded. “I think that’s exactly right, Var. He must have had supporters who’d have caused trouble if he was still alive, but his death cuts it off. And his brothers’ deaths probably matter too. However it turns the stomach, Lachran, it saved a lot more lives than it took.”

“I know that in my head, my lord. It’s just my stomach doesn’t agree.”

“I found that passes.”

“It does.” Lord Imrah rested a hand on Lachran’s shoulder. “For better or worse, the burden becomes familiar. And don’t go thinking you shouldn’t feel it, squire of mine. You were the youngest combatant today, you did well when it mattered, and you can be as thankful as all of us that there wasn’t much actual combat involved.”

It struck Taren that by having Lord Imrah deal with freeing soldiers and horses Kel had neatly steered her nephew away from the greater possibility of combat she‘d faced, as from the hanging, and bet both had been deliberate — one more example of taking burdens for others. He might have said something, but Var had a better idea.

“If your stomach’s off, Lachran, feed it. Tar always insisted I eat when I was sick from something Joren did, and it works. It gives the stomach something better to do than fret. And I bet you’re hungry — I am. We missed lunch so it’s been hours, and they’re serving. Come on.”

Sir Voelden was listening to the immortals’ argument about whether purity was simple or otherwise, but the rest of them went, Lord Imrah commending Var’s sense. She was talking to Lachran, and Taren and Sam dropped back, Taren catching Lord Imrah’s eye and speaking softly.

“Was there anything worse than bodies? I found seeing them bothered me less than seeing that thing Unferth made.”

“I bet. But no, nothing like that. Warlan’s body was a mess, though — gut wound — and Lachran knew him quite well. Some other dead too.”

“Ah. We met him briefly, in Corus, and we’re slightly dreading learning who the other dead are. Sam did a lot of training at the Own’s barracks, and we all spent time there.”

Lord Imrah nodded, and quietly ran off a list of names, but besides Warlan and one other Sam had once sparred with, none of the dead were much more than names to them.

“Thank you. I suppose grief is a lesson we all have to learn. I hope Squire Lachran doesn’t find this one too painful.”

“He’ll be fine.”

“Kel looks after everyone, doesn’t she?”

“I thought you’d seen it. Not sure Lachran has yet.” Lord Imrah shook his head. “And yes, she does, thank all gods for it.”


	9. Chapter Eight -- Names and Negotiators

**Eight : Names and Negotiators**

_New Hope, 21 June – 17 July 464 HE_

 

SAMRADH began as a close repeat of its eve, but there was no sense of foreboding, only joyous relief that the day had come at last. Some of that was down to Kel herself, beaming at the gurgling babies she and Dom held amid a swirling knot of excitable Mindelans and Masbolles, and managing to be both vibrant and serene ; her mood was a beacon, and even knowing that funerals awaited everyone was ready to be happy and thankful for and with her. There wasn’t a sour face Taren saw, though one or two were unsmiling — Master Sternross, detained by Duke Baird in the infirmary overnight, as a precaution, was managing to be visibly alone despite the crowds, while Lord Avinar looked confounded as he considered his youngest sister. Taren didn’t have much sympathy in either case — when gods you actually met failed to meet your expectations of them it was time to change your expectations, preferably without sulking — and there were far more interesting things to observe than foolishly affronted pieties.

He had emerged from the guest-wing at dawn to find dragons already present in, he believed, even greater numbers, but it was hard to tell because they had arranged themselves along the sides of the green parallel to the fin, and today the spatial magic made _them_ seem to be stacked all higgledy-piggledy, at absurd angles that kept shifting, while the main level seemed only slightly ruckled. Kel, in a fine blue dress, had grinned when she’d seen them, and Taren tagged along as she headed to Lords Diamondflame and Rainbow, more or less beside one another at the front of the nearer … row wasn’t right, but neither was any other word he could think of.

“Good morning, my lords. You’re very bright and early. Did you have a nice dance?”

_Good morning to you also, Protector, and we did, thank you._ Lord Rainbow’s tone shifted. _I trust our swift departure caused no offence._

“Not in the least.” Kel cocked her head. “I’m not sure I entirely understand what was so funny, but then I had other things on my mind.”

_Indeed. Lianne of Conté is well?_

“As well as can be expected, thank you, though there will be much grief later. No help for it. But there is one more cheerful thing. Tobe didn’t quite get the joke either, and found your dance very beautiful, as all did, so he asked Kit if _funny_ and _beautiful_ meant the same thing to dragons, and the answer seems to have come out a bit tangled. If one of you could manage some clarity during the day I’d be very grateful, or he’ll be worrying at it for weeks.”

_It was your dance, Diamondflame._

_So it was, Rainbow._ Spatial distortion or no, Taren was pretty sure that was a draconic fisheye directed at the eldest.  _I am not sure explanations will help in so philosophical a matter, Protector, but I am always pleased to speak with Tobeis and my granddaughter._

“Thank you. Oh, and I am solemnly charged by Their Majesties to offer you both most heartfelt thanks for your aid to their daughter yesterday, acknowledging their debt, though they’ll doubtless offer them in person if they get a chance.”

_They are coming here?_

“They are, and at lightning speed for royals. King Lewis we don’t know about yet, but, um, are tending to presume.”

_Not without excellent reason, Protector. New Hope becomes quite the place for negotiations._

“I know, and of many kinds, though those between mortals always seem the hardest.” Lord Diamondflame tactfully said nothing, and Kel smiled. “Oh well. We’ll muddle through, I imagine. Does anything need saying about Junior’s antics yesterday? Tobe said you were coming round to my point-of-view.”

_He gave me a fright, and I returned the favour._

“Tell me.” Kel’s smile became a crooked grin. “But you’re better able to do so than I am.”

_So I should hope. I spoke to his parents as we arrived. They were quite apologetic, for griffins, and will make a greater effort to restrain him — for a while, at least._

“Every little helps. I should get to breakfast or the twins will never be named, but while it’s very kind of you to, um, confine yourselves, I suppose, there’s no need. It looks rather uncomfortable.”

_Many are finding that it is not so easy to web space as Kawit did yesterday._ Lord Rainbow sounded amused. _Diamondflame made his dance a teaching exercise as well as a celebration. If all had it right we would appear neatly braided, and all could see, but as many do not they keep trying. The practice is good for them._

“Oh.” Kel’s eyebrows were raised. “Neatly braided dragons is one for the books, but I’m all for practice. Do you need anything? Then we’ll start as soon as people have eaten.”

Taren lingered to greet the dragons in courtesy and ask if they still wished to speak to him and his siblings, or if Lord Rainbow’s having read him and Sam yesterday obviated the need — which it had, though both said they would be glad to talk as leisure allowed. Taking a deep breath he confessed responsibility for equating danced laughter and beauty.

“Tobe was worrying for his Ma, my lord, because of the deaths and the Black God’s gift, and shares her, um, practical attitude, so he was, well, somewhat affronted by others finding it funny. Your being moved to beauty rather than laughter seemed an ease, but I had no idea you’d be, ah, put back on the spot like this.”

_I dare say I shall survive Tobeis’s interrogation, Taren of Stone Mountain._ Lord Diamondflame was clearly amused again. _And however his earnest protection of the Protector is itself a delight, I would not wish to offend him, so I am glad to understand why he asks. I can always claim that longer perspective in which the Protector’s surprises are an arousing novelty, however grave their occasions. Nor were you wrong, for our dancing serves many purposes, humour and beauty among them._

Relieved, if curious about those purposes, Taren bowed and took himself off to a hasty breakfast. The messhall was packed, but as no-one felt like keeping dragons or Lady Kel waiting all were back outside in good time, icerunes fading as daylight brightened. Immortals again filled the terrace, a subdued Junior sitting by his parents and giving Lord Diamondflame cautiously resentful looks ; Cloestra was still in her tunic on a perch beside Queen Barzha and the visiting queens. If all of the Wild Hunt wasn’t present there were still more hounds than Taren could count, tails wagging, and centaurs as well as spidrens had come in. Apprentices and Journeybeings formed their own group, extending to branch supervisors in training, and Taren felt both pride and a pang as he watched Var climb the steps to join them, sharing a look with Sam.

On the mortal front, a solid block of Mindelans and Masbolles stood before the steps to the shrines, flanked by Protector’s Maids with other personal guests ; sparrows perched on shoulders, or fluttered above, and Peachblossom stood with Jump to one side. Rescuees formed another group, with Duke Baird and Duchess Wilina supporting Princess Lianne and Lord Ventnor, face richly hued with bruises but moving more easily than he had yesterday. The prospective godsparents who were present — the Prince and Princess, Neal and Lady Yukimi, and Mrs Weaver — trailed Kel and a beautifully turned-out Dom up the steps, arranging themselves by a large spellmirror held by Miss Loesia and Guydo, from which Lord Wyldon and others watched as Kel faced the crowd and shushed the excited baby she held. The crowd quieted too.

“My lords and ladies, Your Majesties, Your Royal Highnesses, all guests, be welcome to New Hope and this Samradh nameday. It’s been a while coming, but today Dom and I finally present to you and all the Realms our firstborn children. For those who still can’t tell them apart, Dom has Lalasa, heir to our titles, and I have her just-younger brother, Merric. And before we begin, there are some things that need saying.”

Taren again thought how complex Kel’s voice could be, as joy was layered with sorrow, duty, and complexities he could not disentangle.

“Today of necessity sees loss as well as gain, naming followed by funeral. Those wrongly slain in Galla will be buried at Haven at noon — Master Fellon, Anna of Nicoline, and fifteen of the King’s Own.” She named them, and Taren wondered if she had known all personally, as well as who had spent the night digging graves and making coffins. “All who would come are welcome, but be aware close kin of the dead as well as Their Majesties will attend by spellmirror, and how long it will take is anyone’s guess. And one thing more, for some have said it is ill-fated that funerals should occur today, yet while none of the dead should be so, they have their place in a greater pattern.”

She looked to Dom, Lalasa in his arms, and Mrs Weaver.

“The names we bestow are themselves commemorations. Lalasa is named for Lalasa Weaver, Isran as was, a good friend when I had few, and the person truly responsible for the Protector’s Maids. It is to me a great joy that she is here to stand as her namesake’s godsparent, with Prince Roald and Lady Yukimi, as Princess Shinkokami, Sir Nealan, and Lord Wyldon will stand for Merric.” The babe she held gurgled at his name, and she bounced him a little. “But he is named for one who cannot be here. Sir Merric of Hollyrose, himself wrongly slain, rests at Haven, and we would always have taken both newly named to honour that grave and remember a lost friend. And beyond that, Sir Alanna reminds me that the Black God brought Sir Merric’s spirit to see his killer’s death, as he brought Lady Anna’s yesterday. The echo is an offering he makes to the Timeway, I think, giving hope that Sir Merric will be watching today, wishing his namesake well, and that even these most wrongful deaths, taking the faithful from us before their natural time, are not without meaning, as the dead are not without his solace.”

Kel’s voice deepened with yet more layers of dry rebuke and command.

“I am told my views are theologically problematical, but I doubt the gods care if that is so, and as I am this day the celebrant of both life and death, I say that sorrow will not lessen joy though joy leaven sorrow, as we honour lives already lived with those just beginning.”

Caught up in admiration for Kel’s clarity of vision and handling of the lurking problem she had just defused, Taren was taken aback by the crowd’s swollen murmur of acknowledgement, _Lady Kel_ , flowing into a unified prayer, _So mote it be_. He realised he had spoken himself, with Var and Sam, and chimes rang, deep and pure, resonating in his skull as Kel’s smile dazzled them.

“And so we are assured the gods hear us, wishing us well and patiently awaiting the offerings with which we begin, as every Samradh must.”

She handed a mildly protesting Merric to a cheerful Neal, who easily balanced him on one hip, and was joined by Tobe and Irnai, both in new outfits and carrying trays with the Samradh offerings of summer fruits and wine. As she had at Beltane, Kel worked from the outsides in, criss-crossing from Lord Sakuyo to Lord Gainel, the Black God to Lady Shakith, before coming to Lord Mithros, the Great Goddess, and the central double shrine to Lord Weiryn and the Green Lady. Taren wondered about the order, the ambiguities of Lord Sakuyo being first or least, Lord Mithros preceding the Great Goddess, but however it might give some theological indigestion each shrine pulsed silver as Kel prayed, curtsied, and made the offerings. With the last, double shrine chimes sounded as silver flared dazzlingly, making Kel and the children step back and shield their eyes as other mortals went to their knees, and the hounds of the Hunt stood tall. Taren blinked away tears, and saw Lord Weiryn and the Green Lady were also in finery, matching forest-green robe and dress, both smiling as Kel curtsied.

“My lord, my lady, be welcome to New Hope.”

“Always, Protector.” Lord Weiryn’s voice did not have the distant power of the great gods’, but was astoundingly rich and deep. “And you have our warmest congratulations on your achievements yesterday. None of my brothers and sisters can recall any other mortal who has so surprised us twice in such swift succession.”

“Thank you, my lord, though given the grace of the dragons and basilisks it seemed only common sense.”

“Or uncommon sense, Protector.” There was mirth in the Green Lady’s voice, and Taren wished he could see Kel’s face. “But don’t let us delay your Nameday ceremony.”

“You don’t mind standing for yourselves again, then?”

“We come to do so, as well as to see our daughter. You have parents and godsparents here, so it seems proper for you to have gods too.” Lord Weiryn’s eyes were bright, and Taren swallowed laughter, wondering if that _proper_ had been aimed at Master Sternross. “Your children will be the keepers of our great shrine, so we are happy to bless them.”

“Thank you again, my lord, my lady. On we go, then.”

Tobe bowed and Irnai curtsied to the gods before returning to places by Piers and Ilane, and Kel faced the crowd again, apparently unruffled.

“Respects have been properly paid, so back on your feet, everyone. And as it’s another of those occasions when I’m a participant as well as the celebrant, I’ll be making up the protocol, again. Fortunately, ladies first and eldest first agree, so we start with Lalasa — or I should say both Lalasas, and Roald and Yuki.”

Dom came with young Lalasa to stand beside Kel, and both held the babe to present her first to the crowd and then to the gods. Lord Weiryn and the Green Lady, standing before their shrine, acknowledged her for themselves and on behalf of their brothers and sisters, and each bestowed a drop of silver on her head, provoking a surprised chunter the Green Lady stilled with a gentle finger. Then godsparents swore oaths of care, and Taren observed with interest the genuine pleasure as well as political satisfaction on Prince Roald’s face, simpler joy on Lady Yukimi’s, and exalted wonder on Mrs Weaver’s as each commitment was acknowledged verbally by present gods.

Everything repeated for young Merric, down to his protest at the drop of silver and godly shushing. Princess Shinkokami smiled warmly at him despite nervy glances at the gods, and Lord Wyldon’s firmly spoken oath was boosted by Numair, resting a hand on the spellmirror. In any other context the use of magic to enable an oath to be given, and proceedings witnessed, from a fief a good week’s ride away would have been an amazement ; here, with gods and braided dragons observing, as well as the Wild Hunt, it seemed no more than the common sense Kel claimed for so many actions. It was just that she saw possibilities so clearly and swiftly, and had no hesitation in pursuing or combining them.

With the ritual completed, Kel told everyone there were no further formalities until the funeral procession departed for Haven a half-mark before noon, adding that nameday gifts — Taren had remembered, just, to give Eskry the matched napkin rings to pass on — were on show in the front wing, and a happy confusion developed. Adult dragons unbraided themselves, going to speak to kin among the younger dragons with space rippling about them — and there _were_ more, with at least five Taren did not recognise from yesterday — while hounds converged on Lord Weiryn and the Green Lady, embracing their daughter and greeting Numair and their grandchildren. Mindelans and Masbolles similarly converged on Dom, with the twins and their godsparents, though Kel, Lord Imrah, Alanna, and Piers were speaking to Lord Wyldon in the spellmirror. Taren kept an eye on Var, but seeing her talking animatedly with Master Geraint went with Sam to pay his respects to Lord Wyldon.

As he suspected, there was a swift political briefing going on, and he gathered Lord Wyldon had faced the task of telling the family of one of the dead Ownsmen, senior liegers at Cavall, what had happened. He, and they, would be attending the funerals, if a mirror could be transported, and in the longer term, if the King’s stay at New Hope was protracted, he would (Lady Vivienne’s health permitting) once again head to Corus to support Prince Liam and Duke Gareth. He was also clearly, beneath ironic wonder at and sincere gratitude for Kel’s actions, very angry with Lord Biron and by extension King Lewis, and Taren was reminded that the raked scars on his face had been suffered defending royal children.

When business faded into more personal talk Taren and Sam stepped forward, intending no more than polite greeting, but found themselves introduced to the whole party at Cavall. Lady Vivienne was there, looking well enough if a little flushed, and three grown daughters, Lady Sunarine, Lady Cathrea, and Lady Margarry, with her grey-eyed future husband, Sir Owen of Jesslaw, flanked by two handsome half-grown boarhounds. Both the hounds and Sir Owen were more interested in what they could see of the Wild Hunt, milling around their Huntsman, for which Taren did not blame them in the least, though he was pleased to meet Sir Owen, of whom he had heard tales. He offered congratulations on their engagement, and learned that the wedding would be next spring, when Lady Margarry came of age.

“It feels like forever, but it could be worse.” Sir Owen had a very open smile. “My lord threatened to make us wait until Sunny and Cath were both married, but they didn’t like it any more than we did so we all said we’d elope, and next year it is. Would you like to come?”

“If nothing at Stone Mountain prevents me, I would be honoured, Sir Owen, Lady Margarry.”

“Good. It should all be very jolly. You’re much nicer than Joren.”

“I try.” Lady Margarry scolded an unrepentant Sir Owen for his bluntness, and Taren laughed. “No offence taken, Lady Margarry. I rather hated my half-brother myself, but Kel’s helped me get over it.”

He told them about Joren’s overwrought effigy and the shrine Kel had suggested, drawing grins from both, and less expectedly a smile from Lord Wyldon, who had been talking to Sam and was listening.

“A very proper course, Lord Taren, nicely combining piety and rebuke. And I am reminded I owe you a reply to your interesting proposal about scent dogs. I’m sorry for my tardiness but I have been busy. And you have had several unexpected adventures, I gather, and done very well.”

“That would be one way of putting it, my lord, and your reply will be welcome anytime. I don’t know about very well — I’ve tagged along more than anything — but I have certainly seen horrors and wonders, and learned a great deal. Lord Mithros seemed approving yesterday, and I am to inform my father that he prefers, I quote, _quality to quantity in prayer, and deeds to words_.”

Lord Wyldon’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you indeed? That is unusually direct.”

“Isn’t it? But unusually direct seems to happen a lot around Kel, one way and another. Perhaps her siege technique inspired him.” Taren received an austere look, and returned a bland one. “Truly, my lord. He was, ah, amused and admiring, I think. So were the dragons.”

“As well they might be.” Lord Wyldon shook his head. “I am still trying to take it in. To reduce a walled city so swiftly and easily has far-reaching implications.”

“Twenty-three minutes from first exchange to departure through the remains of the barbican.” Taren tried an austere smile of his own. “Or so Lord Mithros said. As the god of war and justice he was not spectating idly, however the rest of us did little more than gawp.”

“I expect he thought Kel was being interesting.” Sir Owen nodded sagely. “Lord Weiryn said just now they’d all been surprised, but it’s only Kel catching them out on their assumptions, as she does everyone. I’m only sorry to have missed it.”

“A darking could show you sometime, Sir Owen.”

“Well that’s a thought.” Sir Owen brightened. “Yaman too, maybe — that sounds as if it was very, well, not jolly, I suppose, with that silly lord and his lot, but fun all the same. Seeing all the hounds together is really something, and seeing them in action would be even better.”

“So long as they weren’t chasing you.”

“No indeed.” Lord Wyldon had been regarding Sir Owen with what Taren thought was mostly resignation, but turned an assessing gaze on him. “You have gained much poise, Lord Taren.”

“Thank you, my lord. It was either that or scream.”

“A familiar dilemma with Keladry. You are wanted, I think.”

Taren turned to see Kel standing by Queen Barzha’s perch and waving a hand in summons. He held up a single finger in acknowledgement, and turned back to the spellmirror.

“I must go, I’m afraid. Stone Mountain will be offering stormwing eggwifery in return for their services and we need to take advantage of today’s gathering for some negotiations. It’s good to see you again, my lord, and to meet you all, my ladies, Sir Owen.”

He left them, drawing Sam along, with a pleasing sense of having occasioned some surprise of his own beyond not being like his vicious half-brother or ridiculous father. Skirting the knot of Mindelans and Masbolles talking to babies, godsparents, and one another, he saw that Tobe and Lady Skysong had between them collared Lord Diamondflame, sitting within the spread claws of an upturned paw while he listened gravely. Taren would happily have joined them, but duty called, and in the event the stormwings were very interesting too.

The visiting queens were Yashra Bluefeather, Thalia Grievousclaw, Minneh Sunblade, and Scorza Hardbite, and all were among the minority of stormwings who had not participated in the Immortals War, finding themselves subsequently barred from the Mortal Realm by gods’ decree. They had thus suffered no losses, but confinement to the Divine Realm also meant prolonged starvation, in stormwing terms, so they had had no young since the Human Era began — a situation that had been fuelling resentful protest even before the fecundity of the Stone Tree Nation at New Hope became known. The gods’ decree had not yet been formally rescinded, but permission had been granted for this embassy, and it seemed to be understood that as long as eggwifery was the principal purpose, and there was no trouble, a blind eye would be turned.

The lure of successful deliveries and incubations was powerful, but all four had mixed feelings. They were envious of Queen Barzha, astonished and thrilled by much about New Hope — not least an unexpected and very rich meal — and deeply fascinated by Kel, but taken more than a little aback by the reformed Stone Tree Nation. Not having had any mortal corpses to soil for more than four centuries they had long been clean, and had no problem staying so if emotional food was available, but had not understood how new a flight Queen Barzha was charting, and were grappling with the practicalities of mortal co-operation. Diplomacy, Guildwork, healing, and fetching-and-carrying when urgency beset groundpounders were all startling notions, and depths of immortal need warred with strengths of immortal caution.

Everything thus remained rather contingent, but Taren could and did undertake to ensure that two Stone Mountain healers would come to New Hope for training as soon as there was another Stone Tree Nation pregnancy — which Queen Barzha seemed to think would not be long ; a mage who knew the heating spell needed for the petrified blocks to aid incubation would also be available, and Sam started intent discussion by wondering aloud if an outer layer of petrified foam might not reduce the frequency with which the spell had to be re-applied. Experiments would be undertaken, and Kel gave Sam a clap on the shoulder for good thinking. Going the other way, Taren was clear that cleanliness and being treaty-bound not to harm any of his fief’s mortals without his let were absolute requirements of residence, while the services formally sought were unterrorising, as emergency response and more extended care, with terrorising only in judicial need and at his specific request.

“Beyond that, Your Majesties, there are two things we might canvass. Besides the general interest and advantage of immortal conversation, there may be times when, um, an emotional reading of someone might be very helpful. I have inherited young, and there are those who may think to take advantage, as well as outright spies.”

“You don’t say.” Queen Thalia’s teeth flashed in a grin. “Duplicitous mortals? Whatever next? We can’t read thoughts, you know.

“I do know, Your Majesty, but Queen Barzha and the Stone Tree Nation knew the absence of emotion in those loyalists of Maggur’s, and knowing someone is _not_ feeling what their words suggest they ought to be could be very helpful.”

“So it could.” Kel gave him an approving look. “I’ve been wondering about that in relation to King Lewis’s entourage, though I hope the Honesty Gate will catch any real danger. But you said two things?”

“I did, yes. Clothing.” As Taren had anticipated, all the visiting queens and consorts became intent. “I don’t know if the fastening spell Master Numair devised can be taught, but I would hope so, and I could certainly provide leather tunics in part payment for services rendered. We have embroiderers too, if not as talented as Mrs Spinner, but that would be a matter for individual arrangements — though I could deal with finances as a loan against service, if you didn’t wish to bother with mortal money.”

“You read us well.” Queen Yashra’s claws flexed, biting into the wooden perch. “Cloestra is … intriguing.”

“To say the least.” Queen Barzha’s voice was very dry. “I’ve been in two minds about clothing, but I shall be wanting that tunic after all, Protector.”

Kel had acquired young Lalasa from her father, who was listening, and rocked her daughter as she smiled.

“Will you, Your Majesty? It’s waiting for you, and one for Lord Hebakh.” A finger smoothed Lalasa’s hair as Kel glanced at Taren. “A queenly tunic was one condition of Barzha’s let for Cloestra’s. Same basic design, but a glass crown on the back of hers and crossed steel feathers on his.”

“Huh. _Craftsbeings Guild_ and names on the front?”

“Yes, with titles.”

“We need some rules, then. Plainly only Guild members are entitled to be identified as such, and that’s in Tortallan law — misrepresenting yourself as a guildmember is punishable by fines, or worse if safety as well as fraud is involved. And I assume only queens are allowed crowns, but are crossed feathers only for consorts?”

“Point. Barzha?”

“Who knows? We’ll think about it.”

All the queens and consorts were giving Taren looks, and he shrugged.

“Better to work it out in advance, Your Majesties. Clothing carries more than one message. Do you want nations differentiated by style or colours, or is it a free-for-all, crowns excepted? Is anything specifically forbidden? I would advise keeping rules simple — sumptuary regulation is always hard to enforce, and anything with leeway is next to useless.”

“Simple is good.” Queen Barzha’s teeth gleamed. “Especially where we’re concerned. There is a reason we’re divided into nations, Taren, and you _really_ don’t want to see a stormwing convention. The last one was when we were all locked into the Divine Realms, and no-one agreed with anyone about anything except being very unhappy about it.”

Taren tried to imagine it, realised they’d all still have been stinking, and gave up. “No false claims, then, of membership or rank.”

“That might be simple enough. Problems, problems.”

But there was a glint in Barzha’s eye, and she laughed when Scarlet extruded a head by her ear to squeak.

“Tunics fun?”

“Yes, tunics fun. Embroidery, too. Mortal fingers have so very many uses. But I think we have done what we can today, save for the primary problem that no stormwing in the Divine Realms will fall with egg if they don’t feed well first. Protector?”

Kel shrugged. “The options remain the same, Barzha. Well, I dare say there’ll be some upheavals in Galla, but I can’t tell you where or get you invited, so there’s the Scanran executions, the nervous coming here, though I’m not so keen on that, and the Wild Hunt — which is only a problem because of Lord Weiryn and the Hundred Year Rule. Let’s see if he and Wuodan and Frige are free.”

They were, or made themselves so, with the Green Lady, and Taren listened with fascinated disquiet to a discussion of how best to wrangle Lord Mithros into allowing a proper Hunt that stormwings might attend for purposes of fertility. Gods and hounds were willing in principle, but there were severe complications, ranging from divine caution in risking the liberty to visit Daine that Kel had previously wrangled, to Wuodan’s and Frige’s sharp sense of what the Wild Hunt did and didn’t do, and whom exactly they were supposed to hunt. But Kel had an idea.

“Wuodan, you say Lord Mithros likes being offered answers. Well, he’s just promised to make an effort about Chaos-taint in Scanra. Can you smell it? Or distinguish the guilt of those who have done wrong under its influence?”

_Interesting question, Protector. We have never done so, but I cannot see why we should not. Guilt is guilt, and raw Chaos is distinctive enough._

“Try it? I’m thinking that if Your Majesties were to … threaten to become a nuisance, an offer from you and the Hunt, my lord, to help tackle Chaos-taint _and_ feed stormwings could, no offence to anyone, hit several birds with one stone.”

“So it could, Protector.” Lord Weiryn sounded interested. “The Scanrans might not be so keen.”

“With some warning I don’t think Jorvik or Ragnar would mind, nor some others. They don’t want another Beorhtscyld, nor anything like, and it’s hard to argue in favour of keeping Chaos-taint. But stormwings would have to be very disciplined — terror only at the Hunt’s direction, and no messing. It might be better if it were not anyone’s _first_ meal after such long deprivation.”

“Indeed. The executions?”

There was a curious note in Queen Barzha’s voice, and after a long moment Kel nodded.

“If you like. I can’t say I much care how badly those men die, as long as they do. Jorvik and Ragnar will add to the tally, I expect, but you’ll need to square it with them, and those who served Unferth’s necromancy should be … unfavourably distinguished.”

“I think we might manage that. I shall not be Jorvik Hamrsson’s Headswing, nor any other of the Stone Tree Nation.”

“Fair enough.”

Taren was again struck by the contrast between how flexible and forgiving Kel could be, if you stayed in her good books, and how ruthless if you didn’t. There was a kind of efficiency in it — if one had to have executions, let them serve every purpose they could — but also that seamless weaving of possibilities arising from very different events and needs, all informed by a formidably accumulated understanding of immortals and gods alike. The stormwings seemed to think so too, and Queen Yashra’s claws flexed again.

“You are being exceptionally helpful, Protector.”

“Why shouldn’t I be, Your Majesty, when I can be?”

_You will grow used to it, Yashra. Just don’t mind being surprised far more often than is reasonable._

Kel flapped a hand at Wuodan, making Lord Weiryn grin.

“Everyone’s surprised most of the time just now, Wuodan, as you know perfectly well. Just consider, Your Majesties. Thanks to King Jonathan being … well, foolhardy, really, however it paid off, the roil has delivered real change, in at least four mortal nations so far, or five maybe, counting Galla, and the Divine Realm is not exempt. I told Moonwind yesterday, and with the Dragonlands in play your eyries are as well. But you need to think about the nature of the changes, because they are in general promoting peace. Good for mortals, and very good for our children, but not so good for you, or yours — unless you follow the flight Barzha’s charting. And really, do you _want_ to go back to rolling around on battlefields and having everyone with a nose avoid you? Or for that to be the lives of the young you so desire?”

Queen Barzha only looked ironic, but the other queens and their silent consorts were staring.

“It is our purpose, Protector.”

“Nonsense, Your Majesty. Your purpose is to prevent war. Dishonouring its dead so … colourfully was a means, of a sort. I can’t say I’ve ever seen much evidence it worked. And you have an alternative means. Both in Yaman and yesterday, the Stone Tree Nation has had more than a claw in stopping two wars before they could get started. You helped yourselves yesterday, and while there won’t always be that kind of feast available being involved in keeping mortal peace has to be more interesting and gratifying than moping about in your eyries. Now Dom and I need to take the twins to Merric’s grave, if we’re to be back in time, so if you’ll all excuse me. My lord, my lady.”

And with nods to Lord Weiryn and the Green Lady Kel was gone, leaving immortal shock and divine amusement in her wake. Scratching Frige’s ruff with one hand, Lord Weiryn raised an eyebrow at his wife.

“Thanks to Jonathan of Conté the roil brought real change? And she probably believes it.”

“He played his part.”

“She played a greater, and still does.” He looked at the stormwings. “She has a point about purpose and means, though. You are bound to your dreamer’s purpose, and to the form she imagined for you, but not to any particular means of achieving that purpose.”

“She is right also that change comes to all. It was a great roil. And for our daughter’s sake, if nothing else, I will aid your eggbirths as I can in memory of Rikash Moonsword.”

As a conversation about egg-bearing developed Taren hastily promised to dedicate shrines to both gods at Stone Mountain as soon as it had a new temple, before he and Sam escaped to collect Var and change into more sombre attire. Others were beginning to do likewise, and being in good time meant they could eat an early lunch without haste — only a light meal, given the feast due in the evening, but welcome after such a long and varied morning. As more people in dark colours came in to the messhall the mood shifted, sorrow acknowledged but without gloom, and Taren saw that some still in festive clothing had black armbands. Var’s polite enquiry revealed that Kel had asked Mrs Spinner to organise the Maids into making several hundred overnight, and he wondered if there were anything she had not thought of, rueing that he had not even begun to consider the practicalities of burying seventeen — of which, now he did, there were very many. He said as much to Sam and Var, and Lord Imrah, seated across the table, agreed.

“Kel thought of the bands, so those without a change of clothes don’t feel uneasy about being disrespectful. There were some coffins in store, others were made and headwoods carved, and Kuriaju had ogres digging graves without being asked, but Vanget and Alanna took on some of it. The deaths need to be properly recorded, and they recovered effects and armour. Baird and Neal removed bolts as well — not pleasant, but they have a Gallan maker’s mark — and we have a darking record of the dead after they were washed and laid out. Alanna and Kel also prodded the King to contact any families in Corus or close enough to get to the Palace for noon today, so there may be quite a crowd in the mirrors.”

If so it would not be the only one, for the procession that formed behind Kel, surrounded by her Guard and leading the carts carrying coffins, was as long as it was peculiar. However Princess Shinkokami might feel mortals should not walk beside gods she had to do so herself, for Lord Weiryn and the Green Lady accompanied the three royals, their clothes darkening to the deep greens of shady forest while hounds streamed alongside. Paired ogres bore two large spellmirrors, rescuees came next, and assorted nobles, Mindelans, and guests followed, Taren, Sam, and Var among them, with Maids and Guildmembers behind. The many other mortals and immortals were mixed, though spidrens and centaurs formed blocks. Dragons exited over walls but paced alongside the column once it reached the Great North Road, spatial magic flickering about feet to keep them to mortal speed, and stormwings glided above — Queen Barzha and Lord Hebakh already in their tunics — with sparrows fluttering around them.

For the previous funeral Taren had attended at Haven mourners had ridden, but adding scores of horses to this procession would have made for delay and confusions, and the long walk allowed the sobered mood to mature into a dignity of witness. There was a brief pause at the foot of the roadway that climbed to Haven, while fighting ogres shouldered coffins and carts moved out of the way, but all then flowed up and into their places as if marshalled — not least, Taren realised with a blink, because dragons were providing more than space for themselves. Nor did hounds, neatly gathered around Lord Weiryn and the Green Lady, seem to take up anything like the room so many large creatures ought to, while mortals instinctively packed themselves as tightly as possible and sparrows found willing shoulders.

In the end far more beings were arrayed around the row of open graves than was remotely reasonable, and though the King’s and Queen’s faces were very still he could see deepening astonishment joining grief on many faces surrounding them in the spellmirror. Sir Esmond, with his parents and surviving siblings, all red-eyed and plainly devastated, had places of honour beside Their Majesties, Princes Liam and Jasson, and Princess Vania, but besides Duke Gareth, Ettenor of Aili, and some others Taren knew, there were many he could not name in King’s Own and regular army uniforms, as well as an extended family beside Lord Wyldon’s in the other mirror, also heartstruck. Yet Kel’s prayer was borne out, for the sight of gods and dragons honouring the dead was as much comfort as there could be and an exaltation in itself, increasingly charging the dignity of grief with strange energies as Kel raised a hand and all stilled.

Surprising everyone, she and Dom walked silently to the shrine of the Graveyard Hag, producing a bag of grain and wineflask, heartstoppingly a bone, and a cone of incense. Kel lit it, laying the bone at the foot of the shrine, and as she made the offering of fruits thanked the Black God’s daughter and Dabeyoun for their care of Haven’s dead, commending to them those who would rest here from today. Chimes sounded, and the carved hyena pulsed silver, causing a stir Kel ignored as she returned to her place by the first grave, and Dom went to stand by Tobe and Irnai.

“We come this Samradh to unexpected funeral, mourning seventeen taken wrongly taken from us, honouring their lives and service, yet rejoicing that we know from the Black God’s own lips, with the witness of Lord Weiryn and the Green Lady, Sarra Beneksri, that he has all their souls safely in the Peaceful Realm, where his judges look kindly on them. It is our custom here at Haven that remembrances of the dead be spoken by all who wish to do so, and that when all is done we depart in silence. And so we begin.”

The ogres bearing Master Fellon’s coffin came forward and lowered it gently into the waiting grave. He had been unmarried and no family were present, but Numair spoke of his kindness and absent-mindedness, intense loyalty to the House of Conté, the chagrin and relief he’d feel at having been unable to defend Princess Lianne and at her deliverance ; Daine added her second-hand gratitude for aid to Numair, and memory of his fondness for bad puns. The King spoke of long and faithful service, supported by Duke Baird, Duchess Wilina, Piers and Ilane, Lord Imrah, and Lord Wyldon ; Princess Lianne and Lord Ventnor ended with words of his assistance to the embassy and the treachery that killed him. Then Kel stood at the head of the grave and spoke the benediction.

“Master Fellon lived and died in our service, and I pray he finds his death his grace, as the Black God’s mercy is infinite. So mote it be.”

Chimes sounded as wind soughed through burning silence. Lord Weiryn gestured silver with one hand, and earth piled by the grave slid silently and swiftly into it, the mound immediately greening as the Green Lady also gestured. Kel’s face was very still for a second before she bowed briefly to the gods and gestured herself, an ogre immediately coming forward and driving home a carved headwood that bore Master Fellon’s name and dates, with the simple legend **A Faithful Servant of Tortall**  ; at a second gesture, young Amir’aan came from his place among the basilisks, and the rock-spell made an obsidian headstone, gleaming in the afternoon light as the ceremonies moved on.

Anna of Nicoline’s funeral was next, and the hardest by far, not only in the rawness of her parents’ and siblings’ grief, keeping their spoken memories brief, but in the tormented words of Princess Lianne that followed, guilt, gratitude, and guilty relief at the forgiveness Anna’s spirit had offered blending into a wrenchingly emotional testimony. Their Majesties’ faces were stone while it lasted, but Queen Thayet then spoke, voice strained as she recalled a Lady-in-Waiting appointed young for her friendship with Princess Lianne and proving a treasure, as well as a critical defender, owed the fullest thanks by all ; one who would be greatly and sorely missed. Lord Ventnor and others of the embassy remembered kindness and good cheer, a love of apples and dislike of cauliflower, with an occasionally mischievous tongue. Finally, Kel ended it with a clear statement of Anna’s mixed rage at her death and joyous relief that it had bought sufficient time for her mistress to be saved, with her witness of her killer’s execution and hurling his spirit at the Black God’s feet, the whole sworn to by gods’ oath. Chimes sounded as Taren’s eyes searched grieving faces in the mirror, seeing comfort, and with the benediction wind again soughed through that silence behind all things. The headwood placed at the filled and greened grave was like Master Fellon’s but bore an extra line, **She Saved Whom She Served**.

The Ownsmen’ funerals were each briefer, though the king formally acknowledged every man, but collectively longer. Most speakers were among the uniformed survivors and those watching with the king or Lord Wyldon, including Ettenor of Aili, very grim-faced, but Princess Lianne and Lord Ventnor with other members of the embassy said what they could. Dom and Captain Uinse also spoke several times, with soldiers of New Hope First and Second, for the dead had been veterans of the siege, and Kel _had_ known them all, if not well. Sam also spoke briefly for Warlan and the other man he’d sparred with, remembering kindness to a stranger, useful lessons, and words of encouragement. Amir’aan continued to petrify headwoods, his somewhat quieter rock spell punctuating the succession of memories, and Taren wondered why it fell to the youngest basilisk ; there might be practical considerations, but he also felt in his bones that it was right. With the last burial complete, Kel briefly addressed the fates of those who had planned and executed the ambush, confirming the deaths of Lords Julian and Etenne, and the mage, with at least some of their men, in the destruction of Aussonne’s walls and barbican, before thanking the Black God for his care of their spirits and judgement of their murderers’. Wind soughed one last time, and Kel turned to the spellmirrors.

“We have done all we can to ease and honour the dead, and know them safely with the Black God, however grievously missed. Would you say anything more ere we depart Haven, sire?”

The king’s eyes were dark, his face drawn. “Only to offer you, on Our behalf for all, Our great thanks for your astonishing service yesterday and today, in valour, justice, and mercy ; and to offer the dragons and basilisks Our heartfelt thanks also for helping to save Our daughter, and so avert war and very many more funerals.”

He gave Kel a bow, as did all mortals present, and she nodded but made a slight gesture of negation.

“I second the thanks to dragons and basilisks, sire” — she turned to Lords Diamondflame and Rainbow, bowing and receiving their nods — “and speak for all in thanking Lord Weiryn and the Green Lady for their grace this day.”

All bowed or curtsied again, and Lord Weiryn inclined his head.

“You and all are welcome, Protector, and I too am glad mortal war will not return to my lands. These dead have more blessings than mine and Sarra’s, and Haven will be ever a place of peaceful rest.”

With no more to be said Kel offered one last bow to the graves, echoed by the crowd, and in a deep yet not uncontented silence led gods, royals, survivors, and all down to the road and back towards New Hope — not, Taren thought, that they had ever truly left it.

 

* * * * *

 

In the aftermath of Samradh things settled down while anticipation steadily ratcheted up. The evening feast had been wonderful, laughter flowing around the presence of the High Ones, but Taren found his memories fragmented — an effect Kel wryly said she was familiar with — and the only thing he was certain of was that with duty done the gods had been more interested in spending time with their family than with anyone else. There had been a certain amusement in watching Lord Avinar staring and sensibly not working up sufficient courage to intrude with questions that would not have been answered to his satisfaction ; but there had also been the flash of pure envy on his face when, after the feast and dancing — in which Kel twice partnered Lord Weiryn — the god kissed her forehead in farewell, and the Green Lady embraced her, offering thanks for all that she did.

During the interval between funerals and feast Taren had been involved in a discussion about unterrorising with stormwings, Duke Baird, Neal, other healers and some who had been helped, including Vorinna, and had the satisfaction of knowing His Grace would inform army healers and more, so that when Stone Mountain had resident stormwings patients might be sent there. The notion of his smirched fief gaining a reputation as a place of healing pleased him (and Sam and Var) enormously, and there had also been the intimidating delight of dragontalk, primarily to ask Lords Diamondflame and Rainbow to drive home Kel’s advice to their neighbours the stormwings whenever occasion might arise, and pass on any knowledge about the late Lord of Aussonne that came to them, but also about the Firestone. Both senior dragons were cautious, saying that Shakith was as rarely clear as she was wrong, but sure that whatever instinct had prompted his gift was one to heed, and that he and his siblings were of the Timeway, in whatever measure.

_That your father’s abdication was the roil reaching Stone Mountain is clear_ , Lord Diamondflame had said, _and it is interesting that you felt it right to come here, to be caught up in the Protector’s suppression of two eddies. As Rainbow says, it is also striking that you are the youngest lord of Tortall, for much in all this has turned upon the youngest of their kinds. But advice is a dangerous thing, and I would say only to continue, trusting yourself and not being intimidated by the old — even us, not that you show much sign of being so._

With that Taren had to be content, and found he was. Seeing (but not hearing) a long discussion Kel had with all adult dragons, clustering around her on the green as she and Dom encouraged the twins to push themselves up off their tummies and crawl, he decided that while he would not say he knew his limits — much might still stretch them — he was beginning to miss Stone Mountain ; that for all the wonders here, and his gratitude at being a part of them, he had his own fief to look to in his own ways. Dragons and gods were profoundly astonishing, deeply wonderful, but also distractions from mortal business, and he salved his conscience next day by writing at length to his mother and aunt, and Svein, giving a full account of all that had passed, as well as bringing his journal up to date.

Kel’s birthday, three days after Samradh, was blessedly peaceful, if not quiet — a family day with friends, punctuated by immoderate quantities of food and good cheer while New Hope hummed around them. Many liegers stopped by with gifts, often of their own making, but none lingered, and while warmly thankful for all, including the opal brooch Taren gave on behalf of his siblings as well as himself, Kel spent most of her time with her twins and other younglings, surrounded by older nephews and nieces. Even Lachran was there, firmly off-duty for the day, and watching them Taren thought Kel found such company as cleansing as she found nursing redemptive, and that Lachran was benefiting as well. She also persuaded Lady Yukimi, Princess Shinkokami, Ilane, Tobeis, and Irnai into a game of fan-toss, other children standing well back, and for the first time Taren, Sam, and Var saw the full rhythm, assigned partners succeeded by open choice of recipient, fans closed and then gleamingly open, the whole as elegant, smooth, and graceful as it was potentially deadly.

There were more serious moments, not only because Princess Lianne was there, still deeply grieved, if increasingly angry as well. The day being gloriously sunny, knots of adults wound up scattered around lawn, house terrace, and various rooms, and amid idler conversation politics and military realities made repeated appearances. More than Lord Wyldon knew that what Kel had done had far-reaching implications, but it was General Vanget who saw most clearly, speaking to Piers and Lord Thomas, though many were listening, including immortals.

“Forget the barbican. It was spectacular but could’ve been something else. Point is the absolute efficacy of a mixed mortal and immortal force, whatever it faces. It’s not a new idea — it’s obvious immortals have abilities any commander’d love to have available, and both Ozorne and Maggur tried it, using magic to coerce. And they had some success, but in the longer run it didn’t work out well for either of them. But Kel’s commanding a wide range of volunteers and turning new theory into very smooth practice. And until someone else figures out how to get themselves the loyal co-operation of immortals up to and including dragons, and the blessings of massed gods, what we have is a new absolute. Go up against the Guild and you’re going down, fast and permanently. Short of magery at Numair’s level, there’s no obvious defence, though what’d happen if Kel ever faced a real army in open battle is one to ponder. Can’t see what army that could be, though. So where the problems will be is with people — mortals, I mean — who don’t think it through.” His head swung. “No idea how this sort of thing works, Kawit, but if I could I’d be warning immortals everywhere in this Realm that stupider and greedier leaders, and more frightened ones, are going to be looking at them very covetously as this news spreads.”

_That is a wise thought, Vanget haMinch, and I will make sure word is passed. Such dangers have always existed, but the less experienced would be well reminded to take care. And your analysis is correct. None other can command so widely as the Protector, and the debt she is owed runs ever deeper._ The opal dragon’s mindvoice became more reflective. _As does her mastery of spiritual warfare. The Yamani perfect state takes two_ sensei _, but the Protector strives to achieve it when there is no other, a minimal violence averting a far greater._

“Hah.” General Vanget grinned. “I can see that, sort of. The sound of one hand clapping, _very_ loudly.” Many laughed. “Don’t know the analogy really works, Kawit, but I take the point. Gods know Kel can do slugging matches if she has to — the siege was, in its way — but she’d rather a clean killing blow, and the spiritual warfare thing multiplies its effects many times over.” He frowned, thinking. “Some of it’s the means, and the shock of those means, with their speed. The rest seems to be memorable … well, not graves, despite Genlith’s, but whatever you call those petrified rebels in Yaman, and now that gibbet at Aussonne.”

Taren had been thinking about names. “The Yamani ones are the Stone Fools, General, courtesy of Tobeis, and surely Lord Biron was and is another Stone Fool. But Daine says the phrase doesn’t work in Gallan, and what might is _le Pendu Pierreux_ — the  _Stone Swinger_ , I suppose we’d say, however he won’t be doing much of that.”

“Taren!” Ilane had a hand to her mouth, but her eyes were laughing. “You’re getting as bad as Tobe at deadpan jokes.”

“I’m flattered. But I was thinking we — I mean those negotiating with King Lewis — might want a plain way of referring to the lesson Lord Biron now, ah, embodies.”

“So we might.” Piers had a cat snoozing on his lap. “And I wouldn’t count yourself out of any negotiations, Taren, if you’re still here. All else aside, Stone Mountain is a big player in the Drell trade, on which Galla depends quite heavily. I do agree with Vanget that Kel has a habit of providing memorable graves, but there are good ones as well as the terrifying, like Genlith’s. Poor Merric’s, as well as those from yesterday. All that swift greening! My heart was very full.”

“Mine too. I wondered if the Green Lady had been talking to Lord Sakuyo — he did as much with flowers for the graves of Renna Eriksdottir and Braka Haraldsdottir, and they’re becoming a place of pilgrimage. Wuodan said that when the Scanrans who offered, ah, Guthlaf … Eriksson and his wife, went to place the headstones quite a few other pilgrims and some Dragonstowners went along to see.”

“Mmm.” Beside him Var stirred, looking thoughtful. “I heard that too. I’ve been wondering about it as my apprentice project. No mining needed, but a fair amount of stonework, for wayhouses and latrines, and maybe things like the path to the hanging valley, as well as whatever we created at the site itself.”

Sam blinked. “No offence, Var, but isn’t it too big for an apprentice project?”

“Maybe, Sam, but maybe not. Pretty much every pilgrim who comes here goes to see Drachifethe as well, and the same in reverse — it’s a fair step but good safe roads. Going up to those graves is another matter, and I hear Captain Mikal’s already doing some gentle discouraging of the elderly and those with young children. So you could go two ways — a big effort, making it possible even for the frail, or something less, maybe much less, accepting that it has restrictions. Cheaper, of course, but also maybe better. Less disruptive, certainly. What I don’t know about is the politics. Does Kel want lots of people going to see them, and thinking about Unferth’s horror?”

“Kel’s in two minds about that one, Var.” She had drifted in from the garden with Lady Ryokel, and sat in a vacant chair, the child on her lap. “But she does _not_ want another major or urgent drain on resources, and thinks word from those who do go might be well enough for many. Do you really want to do it as an apprentice project?”

“Maybe. I know why I couldn’t go with you and Tar and Sam, but I find part of me wants to go there now I can. And another part of me says I’d want to less if it were all a wonderful basilisk road. I like the idea of minimal impact, too. At Stone Mountain there’s never been much care about that — just get the ore and dump the spoil anywhere — but we’ll be changing things as we can. And for all the Pilgrim’s Way is being done very carefully, it still carves through the land. If there was a road anyway it would be different, but there isn’t, just a path, and maybe it should stay that way — an improved path, with simple wayhouses for food and shelter, but still a path, rather than a road. Oh, and I thought you could invite donations from the pious — those who can’t manage it would happily make a contribution, I’d think. I’d like to myself, really, in money as well as work, to mark how much it mattered to Tar and Sam.”

There was a silence in which Taren kicked himself. “Sorry, Var. I’d not thought that you might need to—”

She put a hand on his arm, smiling. “No, no, Tar. I’ve only just thought about it myself.”

“Well, Stone Mountain could certainly make a contribution, marking how it mattered to all of us.”

“Mmm.” Kel was smiling too. “It’s a kind thought, Tar, and I’ll not be turning down any contributions — pilgrims cost a good deal before they make any return — but I like Var’s minimalism. The roads between here and Dragonstown serve more than pilgrims, but the path to those graves won’t go anywhere else. Well, it might connect with the southern pass over the Grimholds Spur, I suppose, but that’s not much more than a goat-track, by all accounts. And what we actually do there is a good question. A hostel, clearly, but what else, if anything?”

“A shrine to the Black God?” Mischief and something more tickled Taren’s tongue. “Or one to Lord Mithros’s acknowledgement of rebuke?”

Kel gave him an old-fashioned look, though her mouth twitched, and Piers looked stern, but others didn’t.

“I’ll take that under advisement, Taren.”

“More seriously, then, there should be a priest of the Black God.”

“Yes, there should, but I can’t say the ones I’ve met in Corus inspired much confidence. And living up there is hardly an attraction, especially in winter — unless we made it seasonal, I suppose.”

“Oh I don’t know, Kel — the site of a known and recent outpouring of grace, within New Hope, ought to get some attention. I grant you the winter, but there have to be some sensible younger divines who’d consider a year or two, if it would lead on to something. I can talk to Archdivine Holloran when I pass through Corus, if you like.”

“That might be helpful, thanks.” Kel shook her head. “It’d be a very odd job description, and who knows where I’ll find hostel keepers? But if Kuriaju has no objections, Var, you could undertake a survey and write up a proposal — go see, and tell me what minimal would mean in practice?”

“Surely, Kel. Master Kuriaju knows I’ve been thinking about it, so a survey’s the proper step. And I don’t mean to dwell on bad things, but if you’re going to cleanse Rathhausak we should factor that in, because if it’s open some pilgrims will head there as well.”

“Yes, they will.” Kel sighed, shifting Ryokel on her lap. “Won’t they just, poppet? It has to wait on these negotiations, but I’ll be about it as soon as I can, Var. Delay’s unfair to Zerhalm, and all wrong anyway. And what will they see, if they go?”

“Whatever you want them to, Kel. What do I know, never having been there, but if the castle’s being melted, what shape do you want it left in? A memorial, I assume, that soothes rather than scares, but it could be anything. Amir’aan and Bel’iira were wondering what you’d want.”

“Were they? I hadn’t got that far. I must talk to Zerhalm. And suggestions are welcome, but just now Ryokel needs some food. Shall we find your ma, poppet?”

Kel wandered out again, calling for Lady Yukimi, Var went in search of Master Kuriaju, and Sam and others agreed yet more food was in order. Taren stayed put, acquiring the cat from Piers, and wondering if it wouldn’t be best to put the hostel in the main rather than the hanging valley, until he found himself under scrutiny from Lord Thomas.

“My lord?”

“Just wondering how you do it, Lord Taren.”

“Do what?”

“Manage to help with what’s needed here. I’ve a great regard for Keladry and my grandchildren, but I don’t mind saying I feel all at sea here, mostwise. What do I know about gods, or have to say to dragons? But you and your siblings seem to fit right in. Is there a secret?”

Taren almost made a rude retort, but it occurred to him that acquiring Kel as a daughter-in-law was probably a more bracing experience than anyone might reasonably expect, so he only smiled and shrugged.

“No secret, my lord, unless it’s being practical. For all we tried we had not anticipated what we’d find here, and it’s as much a neverending set of surprises for us as for everyone, but however Kel uses means beyond the rest of us, what she wants is usually clear enough, I’ve found. And as we came here to apologise, set things right, and learn what we can of Kel’s wisdom, we try to get on with it.”

“Huh. Just like that.” Lord Thomas had an introspective look. “At Masbolle I know what I’m supposed to do, and do it well enough, I hope. But Keladry rewrites all the rules. Hard to believe something completely all your life and find out it’s all a mistake.”

Taren blinked. “Now that I can understand well, actually, my lord. Nothing my father and uncle taught me turns out to be worth spit. What were you mistaken about, if I may ask?”

“The list gets longer every day, but I was thinking of the Duty of Silence.” He saw Taren’s frown. “About one’s Ordeal of Knighthood.”

“Oh. I’m sorry, my lord, but as I was never considered remotely worthy of knight training it wasn’t something I knew about. Kel did mention it, though, when we spoke about what the elemental had told my father. I can see that would be a shock, but it’s one every knight is facing, so perhaps there’s comfort in numbers, or in that we now _know_ what the elemental does and doesn’t care about, rather than guessing. And better to have been silent when you needn’t, surely, than to have spoken when you shouldn’t?”

“There’s that, I suppose.” Lord Thomas didn’t seem much comforted. “And it’s not as if any knight I’ve met wants to talk about it anyway. Makes me wonder about Domitan never wanting knight training himself. I wanted it for him, and he was more than good enough, but no, off he went to the Own. When he came back halt I was at my wit’s end as to how we could help him, and riding the fief was costing him so dearly. Then he took off again, and I didn’t know what to think except we’d be lucky to see him alive again. Next thing I know he’s got himself promoted, married, and ennobled, and now he’s friends with the king and the Council of Ten and at ease with everyone!”

“And why is that a problem, my lord?”

“Eh?”

“You married into a ducal family, and so did Domitan.” Lord Thomas blinked. “Now your son is a decorated veteran, father as well as husband to a countess, and deeply necessary to the most important mortal born in centuries, and you’re grumbling?”

“I am, aren’t I?” A smile glimmered onto the lined face. “And he did, didn’t he just? Don’t think I’m not proud of him too, my lord. Always. It’s just … well, how do you learn to be the father-in-law of, what did you say? The most important mortal in centuries.”

“Same way as for any daughter-in-law, my lord, I’d think. Is it any different from Kel needing friends a lot more than she needs supplicants or mistaken pieties?”

“I dare say not, Lord Taren, but easier said than done, all the same. Truth to tell, I find Keladry very intimidating, and that ties my tongue.”

“Has time not eased it, my lord?”

“Well, yes. To a degree. And I can’t say she isn’t always welcoming. But then she ups and does something else impossible, and I’m dumbstruck all over again.”

“Then you’re in good company. Do you honestly think the rest of us are not? But you’re doing the right thing anyway, my lord — you wanted to know how to help, rather than wanting help to get what you want, and that makes you a rare commodity. I came with an agenda, less selfish than most, I hope, but still, and so do most. And Kel has to deal with them, as she’ll have to deal with the king’s, so being without one, save loving your children and grandchildren, is a great blessing you offer her.” The cat rose on his lap to circle twice and curl up again, facing the other way, and inspiration struck. “And when the twins are of an age for it, or Kel’s preoccupied with nursing their younger siblings, I’ll bet that a home away from home, somewhere that _isn’t_ full of gods and dragons as often as not, will be a really important role for Masbolle in the twins’ education. They won’t know how unusual New Hope is otherwise.”

“Well now, that’s a notion. Thank you, my lord. Normal we can manage well enough.”

The return of others with food, and a passing scamper of children intent on some game, shifted the conversational pattern again, and Taren spent a while talking with Mrs Weaver while Jump sprawled at her feet, ignoring the wary cat. When she moved on, collected by Guydo for some pressing reason, Ilane dropped into the chair to offer amused commendation on his handling of Lord Thomas, which she’d overheard, and drew him out about his mother and Aunt Lily, asking if he thought they should be coaxed to Corus. And so the day went, filled with useful and more casual talk as well as excellent food, but for Taren above all an object lesson in what loving family life could be, and Stone Mountain’s had never been.

With celebrations over the Crown Couple had been supposed to depart immediately ; that was on hold, but others needed to return to Corus and elsewhere. Alanna and Baron George stayed, as did Neal and Lady Yukimi, Princess Lianne, and all survivors of the embassy, but Piers and Ilane departed for Mindelan with Sir Inness, promising to return when King Lewis was known to be on his way, and Duke Baird with Duchess Wilina, Lord Imrah with a glum Squire Lachran, massed Mindelans, Masbolles, and Maids with the Weavers and Mrs Spinner all headed south. Some of their escort remained as a guard for the royals, and Kel made up the shortfall with two squads drawn from New Hope First and Second who for various reasons could use a few days’ leave in Corus. General Vanget and Lord Ferghal also left, taking Lady Demadina and her family, though Lord Avinar remained ; so did Sir Anders, a decision Taren realised was both support for Kel and because, as Piers’s ducal heir, he felt he should be more politically involved than he had been when Mindelan had been only a barony. But with the guest-wing relatively empty that humming routine reasserted itself more strongly.

Kel herself, besides a driving attack on paperwork accumulated while she’d been busy, spent promised time with the apprentice branch supervisors, warning them she’d be distracted again soon enough. Though in no way calculated, her timing was, Taren thought, perfect, for while all the volunteers were genuine, and had already absorbed much about New Hope, events of Samradh and its eve had, unsurprisingly, sat them all bolt upright. Knowing of grace and miracles was one thing, seeing them with one’s own eyes another, and reasonable self-interest that had already been twined with wonder had metamorphosed into a new gravity of purpose and understanding of the Guild’s power. They were therefore ripe for Kel’s own instruction as Guildmaster in what they would need to do, noble hesitations and uncertainties that could be accommodated, and those that would not be. Listening to several sessions, Taren was struck by how acute Kel’s teaching was, how well she read people, soothing or prodding with great precision — but then, if she could do it for dragon apprentices, he didn’t suppose minor nobles presented much of a challenge.

Having a good head for figures and logistics, Var spent a couple of days with Lady Yukimi, who was tackling the need to ramp up pickle production without compromising quality. Taren had become very fond of several kinds often to be found at Kel’s table, especially _umeboshi_ , but was staggered to learn the prices they could command in Yaman, and intrigued by the diplomatic importance of the new trade. What Lady Yukimi thought essential was also an education : any self-respecting Yamani could, as she showed, distinguish ingredients sliced with a truly honed knife from those cut (or bludgeoned, as she tartly observed) with a blunt one, and such things affected taste as well as appearance ; as (she swore) did the exact shape, straight being straight, and curved, curved. After consulting Kel, one answer was that there would be twice as many pickle-preparers as one might expect, each doing a mark on with a mark off, so they could always concentrate, and a second the promotion to overseer of a former Tirrsmonter cook with a reputation for irritable perfection and a fiercely spotless kitchen. Strong words were also had with those who would be preparing extra pickling fluids, from fermented mead to brine using spring water and Mindelan sea-salt.

The charitable tithe Kel had insisted on, with the shrine to the Green Lady she’d sponsored in Heian-kyó, acknowledging the blessing of New Hope’s earth and the contribution divine associations made to price and sales, was another fascinating example of the careful respect for gods that underpinned her practical demands of them. Piers had said something along those lines about her banter with Lord Sakuyo, relaxed but always in the correct mortal-to-divine Yamani mode, and Taren found himself thinking hard about that, with Lord Mithros’s liking for those who offered answers. Finding Lord Avinar and Master Sternross silently watching Daine teaching the apprentices one morning, he broached the issues both had been avoiding.

“Good morning, Lord Avinar, Master Sternross.”

“Lord Taren.”

He sat. “Have you recovered from your apoplexy, Master Sternross?”

“Apparently. If that’s what it was.” The old man sounded as grumpy as ever. “I believe I owe you thanks for your assistance that day.”

Taren waved a hand, though the mage’s failure to offer any courtesy before had struck him. “You’re welcome, Master Sternross, though I cannot speak for Lord Saman, who also aided you. I was wondering, though, if you knew whether it was piety or rage that overcame you?”

“R-rage?”

“Oh yes. You seemed so very angry with Lord Mithros for failing to be as you think he ought. I confess I was surprised you thought it proper to be so.” Lord Avinar shot him a warning glance. “Did you hear what I said to you when Sam and I picked you up from the god’s feet?”

“When you … No, I didn’t hear a blessed thing.”

“And they were blessed things, Master Sternross, most literally. I said I had told you that piety could be improper — when we spoke after the trial in Dragonstown, if you recall. I don’t doubt you were feeling the greatest piety, or what you take to be piety, when you saw Lord Mithros, but if fainting at his feet and obliging him to recover your helmet for you isn’t quite astonishingly improper, I don’t know what is. He thinks I’m surprisingly polite and sensible for a mortal, so I imagine he’d agree. He certainly wasn’t favourably impressed with you. And the question is, what are you doing about it?”

“What _can_ I do?”

There was anguish in the old voice, but also a quality Taren knew only too well.

“Change your mind, of course, and mend your ways. Really, Master Sternross, and you, Lord Avinar, what this all comes down to is that you each have strong convictions about how the gods ought to be, and as what you have in common is the City of the Gods I dare say they’re conventional convictions by its lights. The problem is that now you’ve actually met some gods, and found they don’t fit your convictions, you both balk at reassessing them. Instead, you stew and glower, presumably wondering how you can fix it so either the gods change to meet your desires or no-one notices you were and are profoundly mistaken about them. And yet I doubt either of you would hesitate for one second in calling yourselves humbly pious. What can you do, Master Sternross? Go beg forgiveness at the shrines, and set yourself to school instead of seeking to school others.”

He took a breath, seeing gaping looks and reminding himself that however Master Sternross had come to remind him of his father, they were not the same.

“Easy to say, I know, but think about it practically. You’re a scholar, so be one. Codify what you believed, identify what has been disproven, and what must replace it. And if you would regain Lord Mithros’s favour, know that he told me he prefers deeds to words. Set about correcting others who share your error, and preach the example of your own failing. Lord Avinar will aid you, in all piety, I’m sure, as he must face the same issues and persuade those who sent him to search hearts and souls. Which you will find a great deal easier, Lord Avinar, if you ask Kel nicely to send a senior immortal and at least one darking back with you — Quenuresh might find it amusing, or Wuodan, even, but the darking will be the key because it can show your superiors most of Kel’s interactions with gods. The dedications, funerals, feasts, and dances here, Yaman, Unferth’s death, and Galla. Let them _see_ what she does, and wonder, as they should. You do realise you’re trying single-handedly to understand and interpret a major theological correction rather than seeking to gather and remit evidence to those whose minds most need to change? It seems unwise to me, but what do I know? Then again, I spoke to the High Ones, didn’t faint, and received a blessing. You might try it.”

Lord Avinar glared at him. “There’s no need to rub it in.”

“Isn’t there, my lord? And why does courtesy so often desert you, both of you? I have every desire to be a great deal more easy-going than my father, believe me, for he was and is arrant in his pride of blood, but if you spoke to me, or Var or Sam, at Stone Mountain as you tend to here, you’d be back on the road and never welcome again. I understand private informality with a younger sister, Lord Avinar, but do you suppose your public discourtesy to the liegelady of this fief, revered by all, goes unnoticed by its liegers? And I’ve had occasion to warn Master Sternross to give my sister her due rank before now. You both seem to think you have some special standing, in piety perhaps, that exempts you from courtesies of natal and earned rank, and maybe that’s the way of the City of the Gods, but it isn’t the way of anywhere else in Tortall, that I’ve ever seen. Are you encouraged in such rudeness as a policy, by way of asserting the primacy of the City of the Gods? I ask because I’ve been considering a formal complaint to Dean Charter about those who represent him, and I wouldn’t wish to muddle personal incapacity and misguided obedience.”

He waited a humming beat, finding only limited pleasure in the stunned looks each gave him.

“Well? Is it a policy?”

“Certainly not. My lord.”

“Better, Master Sternross. The occasional acknowledgement will do — I’m hardly a stickler. Tell me, Lord Avinar, did you also hear the Great Goddess say that Kel sees no reason for needless delay, and that Lord Mithros might try it?”

“I did. Lord Taren.”

“Why do you find it so grating, I wonder? That envy is both misplaced and very unbecoming.”

“Misplaced? She is beloved!”

“And do you want the weight of blood that comes with the gods’ attention, as well as the blaze of glory? You certainly don’t do the training. If you want to walk with the gods as your sister does, what do you propose to do to earn it? Or are you thinking you might, what, nip in somehow? As Master Sternross fancied he might pirate Master Numair’s seminar?”

Lord Avinar had the grace, or simple common sense, to look down as he flushed, and Taren shook his head.

“Really? And your definition of gross impiety would not cover such behaviour? It’s also a truly stupid idea, my lord. Do you suppose the gods would not notice? And the dragons? In any case, the point was delay, because I also wonder what you’re waiting for. You, Master Sternross, can report to Dean Charter, or whomever, that you have ever so many objections to everything, successively overruled by Countess Keladry, His Majesty, and Lord Mithros, and that your borrowed helmet — which I dare say Kel will let you buy, if you want — has touched both his foot and his hand. And you, Lord Avinar, can ask nicely to borrow a darking with a larger immortal minder, and show your worried and waiting superiors that your sister is every bit as gods-blessed as everyone says, and then some, besides being on easy conversational terms with at least six of them. Oh, and there’s the Staff of Light and Lady Shakith’s prophecy too, not that you’ve bothered to ask me or anyone about it. But then you don’t seem to be asking anything much, just brooding, so I’ve been puzzled as to what it is you’re doing anyway. I see Kel doing what I can only call practical theology all the time, and she thinks a great deal about what the gods want, what they are and aren’t telling her. Well and good. But what is the value of your abstract theology, especially when an actual god upends it all so severely? And if the accumulated wisdom of the City of the Gods has been as thoroughly discredited as I suspect, do you not have a duty to be about rebuilding its credit, with some honest admissions and a reversion to first principles, aided by that darking?”

There was a great deal more he might have said, for the root of the problem was a pride and self-regard not equal to his father’s — that would take heroics neither man was capable of — but of a kind, and just as bitterly unwilling, even in acknowledging error, to contemplate correction. But it would hinder rather than help, and was needless.

“I’m about done, but I’ll give you one more piece of advice, Lord Avinar, speaking as one who acquired a taint of disgrace through no fault of my own, and has gone some way at least to cancelling it. What you and your peers need is for _everyone_ to see the darking record, and in full — not just your superiors, huddling behind closed doors, and not just Kel consulting with Lord Mithros or dancing with Lord Weiryn, but the _Sekkinekesaku_ and _Le Pendu Pierreux_ , Lord Etenne crashing to earth to his considerable surprise, Anna of Nicoline both enraged and triumphant in death, the true horror of what Unferth was about as well as the Black God’s grace pouring from Kel’s hands. And unless I miss my guess badly, you’ll find that a great deal easier if the immortal and darking insist on a public showing, so why not get Kel to make it a condition of the loan? Then you can blame her, while putting what Blessed Matsuo- _san_ would call the cat firmly among the pigeons. I’m loth to increase Kel’s burdens, but it’s one she’s carrying already, in some measure, while there’s a chance at least that whacking you all round the back of the head with a darking will help Kel more than it hurts you. Do think about it, please, my lord, and for the love of all gods stop sulking.”

He left them slack-jawed and staring, and shortly found himself corralled by Sir Anders, Alanna, and Dom, who quirked an eyebrow.

“What brought that on, Tar? Not that it didn’t all need saying.”

“Any number of things, Dom. I _have_ been shadowing Kel for nearly two months now.” There were grins, and he waved a hand, though very relieved. “Besides irritation and impatience, I feel I should do what I can before we leave, which we should as soon as we may, and I’ve seen enough to understand why Kel finds it hard to speak to Lord Avinar as frankly as he needs to be spoken to.”

“You’ve saved Papa an unwelcome chore, my lord, surely.” Sir Anders looked at once pleased and glum. “I’d thought of Avinar as simply pious, as Papa is, if more obsessively so, but he has more of Conal’s … readiness to conservatism than I’d realised. And Master Sternross’s glumps and resentments were not helping. But you offered them answers as well as bodyblows. Impressive.”

“Wuodan says Lord Mithros likes being offered answers when he’s supplicated about problems. Why should his self-proclaimed servants be any different?”

“Hoo!” Alanna had been observing with a crooked grin, and threw back her head. “Nice one, Taren. And for my money well done all round. Kel will wince, but only because she thinks she should have done it herself. I doubt wild horses could get Wuodan on darking duty at the City of the Gods, but for several reasons Quenuresh might be willing.”

“If they went swiftly, Quenuresh could fall in with King Lewis and Prince Loup on her way back.”

Alanna’s grin widened, and Dom coughed.

“We try not to ask Quenuresh to terrify people, Tar. Getting them to accept her still takes considerable effort.”

“So trade on that, Dom. And anyway, Gallans, King.”

“The latter being more germane, Dom, as you know perfectly well.” Alanna was still grinning. “So does Quenuresh, who doesn’t altogether mind mortals looking green when they meet her, any more than dragons do. Any timetable on Lord Jadewing yet?”

“Oh hush, Alanna.” Dom didn’t sound annoyed. “But no, not yet, and yes, Kel has thought about the many possible values of his arrival before or during any negotiations. Quenuresh at the City of the Gods, though … I didn’t know you knew Blessed Matsuo- _san_ , Tar.”

“We had tea with him at Beltane, and he showed us his sacred hankie as well as waxing eloquent about the value of cats to pigeons.”

“As he tends to, yes. You think shock tactics are needed, then.”

“I suppose.” Taren looked round their faces, and to his surprise settled on Alanna’s. “What I wasn’t saying was that I’d bet a good deal on their problem being at root the same as my father’s, and that kind of stiffnecked pride gives me … I don’t know, something _very_ itchy. Maybe it’s Kel’s influence, but while I have every sympathy with the shock of finding gods aren’t at all what you thought, nor what you were taught, I have none at all with thinking _they_ ought to square the circle for your convenience.” He shrugged. “It’s my rage at my idiotic father spilling over, yes, but I didn’t think it was misplaced.”

“No. You’re right enough about that.” Alanna had a more pensive look. “And wise about yourself. Anders, was Avinar close to Conal?”

“Not since he went to the City of the Gods, almost fifteen years back. But a bit, yes. They weren’t that close in age, but it’s all girls between. Inness and I stuck together, and Conal took to lording it over Avinar when he came along.”

“Figures. Does he know what Conal said, dying?”

“He should, Alanna. He’s certainly been told. But whether he heard is a good question. I’ll, um, refresh his memory.”

“Please do. Taren’s right that his failure to recognise the burdens Kel bears is striking, and … not unconcerning. He would have been listened to, as Kel’s brother, more closely than he deserves, and I fancy he was counting on winning some advantage from that.”

“Probably.” Sir Anders scowled. “He’s ambitious, certainly.”

“And the City of the Gods is a nest of vipers at the best of times, which for them this isn’t. But a darking show will qualify any advantage, and he’ll face better informed questions, which will do no harm. As to Master Sternross, you nailed him too, Taren — _ever so many objections to everything, successively overruled by Countess Keladry, His Majesty, and Lord Mithros_.” Alanna snorted. “That covers it. He’s been hanging on here as much because he’s frightened to go home and have to admit it all as to see whatever happens next and deplore it.”

“I thought so, Alanna. But I’m beginning to wonder if we — Tortall — haven’t been rather complacent too, happy to think Yamani piety needed shaking up when we’d do better to wonder how to shake up our own. I thought it was just Stone Mountain, but Archdivine Holloran said good men were in short supply, and if Kel’s less than impressed with any priest of the Black God she’s met …”

“Tell me.” Dom blew out a breath. “Kel could do without the burden of officiating so often, but no-one qualified has been remotely what either of us want, or could put up with.”

“What did everyone do while you were away?”

“Postponed whatever they could, and for funerals — three of them — talked Fanche and Saefas into following Kel’s routine.”

“Did chimes sound?”

“Oh yes. They were greatly relieved, and rather chuffed. I’ve told them both they’re liable to be deputised, and as it was Fanche who insisted on Kel officiating in the first place I don’t mind her dismay. But her logic still applies — people see Kel deal with gods sensibly, while divines flap hands, and they’re not silly, so they want her in charge when they have to face gods themselves.” Dom was scowling, but shrugged. “I can’t blame them really. Dragonstown needs a celebrant too.”

“What about Scanrans? Less piety to start with, but isn’t that more help than hindrance? Fewer bad habits to overcome?”

“Huh. Different bad habits, certainly.” Dom’s scowl eased. “That’s an interesting thought, Tar, and I’ll pass it on. But, ah, theological matters aside, celebrants have to have the temple’s recording authority for births, marriages, and deaths, so some kind of training will be needed.”

“Surely, but that’s honesty and careful clerking, not whatever they’re teaching at the City of the Gods.” Taren waved a hand. “Even that name’s an arrogance. When’s the last time any god actually went there?”

“It’s been a while.” Alanna was back to grinning. “You _are_ on a roll today, Taren. So how we do we shake up our piety? I’ve whacked the City of the Gods with a stick before, and so has Daine, but I can’t honestly say either of us did it a blind bit of good.”

“Mmm. But they’re under pressure now, and more receptive, maybe. How much cheese would it take to bribe Quenuresh to make the darking show the inaugural Stone Mountain Lecture on Practical Theology in the Time of the Protector?”

“Ooh! Quite a lot, I’d think, but she might like the idea.”

“And Cloestra next year. Var’istaan, Kawit, Kuriaju, and Lady Skysong.” Taren laughed. “I’d pay money to hear that one.”

“Huh.” Dom was looking very thoughtful, though others were smiling. “That’s another interesting thought. Are you really willing to sponsor such a lecture?”

“Unless the fee expected is very stiff. Twenty-five gold nobles a year? And costs of travel. The City of the Gods picks up accommodation and meals.”

“That sounds generous, and while Kel won’t thank you for the title, I do. Careful, Anders — you’re a prime candidate for a mortal lecturer.” Sir Anders blanched. “And you, Alanna.”

“Anytime, Dom, following you. If anyone understands what a crash course in practical theology means, it’s you, after all.”

“Not a chance, Alanna. I know my limits.”

“I doubt it, Dom, but we can have this argument five years down the road. And actually, Jon might be persuadable — he’s no more impressed with them just now than anyone else. His Imperial Majesty might be glad to send someone, too — Kel certainly showed _him_ some practical theology. But in the first place Taren’s right, again, that it’s immortals we want — much harder to argue with, and the kind of perspective those clucking boneheads need to learn. So I think we have a cunning plan, to follow up on Taren’s good work. Go talk to Kel, Dom, Anders, while Taren and I beard Quenuresh?”

Pitching it to Quenuresh himself was not quite what Taren had had in mind, but the great spidren _was_ amused by the idea, which left her thoughtful, and Taren was perfectly happy to lavish his nobles on the Corus cheese market and despatch the results north. Whether _amused_ or _happy_ covered Kel’s feelings was less clear, but she was relieved someone else had taken a stick to her youngest brother and Master Sternross, welcomed a plan of attack, and only rolled her eyes once at the proposed rubric for the lectures, despite some dark muttering about dragons and temporal nomenclature. She also dragged Taren to a meeting by firespell with Dean Charter, where more plain speaking secured swift if bemused acceptance of the endowment and an imminent date that saw Master Sternross and Lord Avinar depart with Quenuresh next day. As her escort was ten fighting ogres they were the only ones riding, and managed to look remarkably isolated as they disappeared down valley while Kel dusted her hands and rolled her head.

“Well, that’s a relief. Thank you, Tar. I’m sorry to say it, but Avinar was beginning to irritate me far more than a brother ought, and I’m purely delighted to see the back of Master Sternross.”

So was everyone, even Princess Shinkokami seeing nothing wrong with chastising errant _kamunushi_ , though she was generally pensive and given to eyeing Kel with a faint frown. To be fair, she was also coping admirably with Princess Lianne, obliging her to combat guilty distress and manage anger through hard glaive practice. Lady Yukimi and Kel sometimes joined them, or one of the many women at New Hope trained to the weapon, but it was Princess Shinkokami who kept her sister-in-law at it and talked her through conflicting emotions. Prince Roald watched gratefully, offering his sister less articulate comfort and support while pushing her to consider her own position in negotiations — not least so she had one to assert when their parents arrived. And that was one thing driving an underlying tension, for everyone knew they were due and no-one knew what to expect from monarchs who were also frightened and angry parents. Even Alanna was unsure, the desirability of the Gallan match being sharply lessened if there was unrest there, but pointed out that Duke Baird would be speaking to the king when they passed on the road, and would give him a chance to vent as well as a briefing.

There was also the wait for news of King Lewis, a subject of much speculation, exacerbated after five days when Kel said she was assuming he’d be setting off from Aussonne next day with assorted courtiers and an army company as escort. She didn’t say why, save that she’d prayed and trusted her resulting convictions, but Taren wondered if there were side-benefits to using Lord Mithros’s paper and quill, especially if one also enjoyed the regard of Lord Gainel. He found himself thinking rather sideways about communication, and after checking with Kel, who laughed and saw no harm in trying, went to Haven to make an offering and a prayer to Dabeyoun, backed up by asking Wuodan (found wheedling meat from the cooks) to pass on the request when he might.

_You want me to tell Dabeyoun the Protector needs a priest?_

“More or less. There must be _some_ mortals with half-way sensible ideas about the Black God who’d be willing to tend pilgrims at the fairly remote site of a recent miracle, but finding them is very hit and miss. I thought Dabeyoun could give us a list, which would be much simpler.”

_So it would. He’ll be interested to be asked, so I will._ Flameless eyes considered him.  _Mithros was right about you learning more than good sense from the Protector. You’ve given up all that false guilt too._

“I’ve tried, Wuodan, but have you considered that as my needless apologies were wholly sincere they’ve proven very useful?”

_No. Mortal complications are so often absurd. Go away and let me chew on this good meat instead._

Taren went cheerfully, adding a shrine to the Graveyard Hag to his plans for Stone Mountain and wondering if including Wuodan and Frige on Lord Weiryn’s might bring them to the dedications also, whenever they happened. If he ever gave his own lecture — a not unattractive fantasy — he would define practical theology as asking the divine to do things that amused and interested it, as well as solved one of its problems ; it was carrots rather than sticks, but useful and entertaining as well as nourishing carrots, an observation that at dinner that evening made Kel and Alanna hoot laughter and produced from Neal a very funny tirade about the perversity of supposing such a vegetable. Taren retired to catch up on his journal with aching sides and a deeply satisfying sense of being genuinely appreciated as well as liked by people he had come profoundly to respect.

Impossibly enough, he felt that respect deepen the following day as he watched Kel handle Their Majesties with an ease and kindness that was also politically shrewd. They had ridden hard and were clearly tired, but drawn looks dissolved into simple relief as Princess Lianne was embraced tightly enough to make her squeak, and before they’d disentangled themselves Kel was busy processing assorted courtiers and diplomats accompanying them though the Honesty Gate, with the remainder of the King’s Own First. Ettenor of Aili and others had hard handclasps and soft words of thanks for her recovery and burial of their friends, and by the time she was done Their Majesties had had time to compose themselves — though Kel still received a tight embrace of mother’s thanks from Queen Thayet, and a wordless grasp of her shoulder from the king. It had also allowed the entourage to stop gawping and start chattering, and one of the bolder diplomats began bleating about the urgent need to debrief Kel and plan the necessary placation of King Lewis, but found himself cut off.

“Placate, Master Wilson?” Kel’s voice had a razor edge. “Certainly not. We are the ones who need placating, and I’ll thank you to remember it.”

He had courage, if not sense, and tried to insist. “It is not so simple, Lady Keladry. In the matter of kidnap, Her Royal Highness was wronged, certainly, but you greatly overstepped your authority in executing Lord Biron, and we—”

“Did I, Master Wilson? Well, as I received the explicit approval of Lord Mithros, and the Black God attended in divine person, you can take up the argument with them. The shrines are that way. You can also take it up with the dead whose murders I punished — I’m sure Ettenor and the First will be happy to escort you to Haven when they go to pay their respects at the graves tomorrow. As to briefings this evening, no chance — you all need food, baths, and rest, and _my_ briefing, which will be tomorrow after breakfast.”

Master Wilson’s fellows weren’t going to argue, however mulish he looked, and Captain Uinse swept him away with others to settle in. The King offered Kel a weary apology, mentioning the man’s long service at the embassy in Cría and general inclination to appease, but was happy to be escorted to his own rooms, his children in tow. Dinner was strictly personal guests plus royals, giving Kel, Alanna, and Their Majesties time to speak quietly, while Taren, Sam, and Var spoke more idly with Baron George and Neal, and (as Taren gathered later) the royal entourage found themselves in the messhall with Lord Ventnor and other survivors, all happy to bend ears and supply details. Whether it was that or just the general effect of New Hope Taren wasn’t sure, but they were much quieter and warier next morning, waiting while Kel dealt with her twins.

Some welcome summer rain having blown in overnight, the briefing was in the wet-weather practice room above the great reception room, with benches and a lectern brought from somewhere, their arrangement making it plain who would be listening to whom — an authority Their Majesties silently supported by taking their own, more comfortable chairs without demur. Sitting with Sam and Var beside Alanna, Taren quietly asked about those he didn’t recognise and received a swift tally.

“Overall, Jon’s gone strong on trade and traditional diplomacy, which is where the marriage proposal was coming from, with a few lawyers as leavening. The Gallans want a marriage-tie mostly for security, now we don’t face any Scanran, Yamani, Copper Isle, or Carthaki threats, but also want the right to use our side of the Drell all the way to Pearlmouth and cut out Tusaini and Tyran duties on their trade. Weak on nobles, because with George, me, you, Kel, and Ventnor here, and Piers and Ferghal returning, that’s covered. Kel and I cover the Army Council too, as will Vanget. But she’s about to stand them all on their heads anyway. Here we go.”

The king had a slightly sardonic look as he saw the Scanrans who accompanied Kel, one pair standing behind her at the lectern and another flanking the doors, axes shouldered. Other eyes flickered uneasily before locking onto the speaker.

“Your Majesties, Royal Highnesses, my lords, ladies, and gentlemen. I realise you are all eager to begin preparing, but be aware we have time — King Lewis left Aussonne two days ago, and is using the Middle Drell road to Eastwatch, so he’ll be here in about three weeks — and we need that time, because you all need to rethink your basic positions and parameters. That’s one reason I cut you off last night, Master Wilson, because you were assuming a bilateral negotiation in which _we_ had to placate _them_ , and besides your basic error about who needs to placate whom, that is no longer the case.”

The confusion on Master Wilson’s face was matched elsewhere, and Kel held up a finger.

“First, I did not act as Aussonne only or even primarily as a noble and general officer commanding of Tortall, although it was in the latter capacity that I used regular army troops deployed with His Majesty’s permission. I also acted as Guildmaster of the Craftsbeings, whose lawful business the late Lord Biron’s treasonable act of war interrupted and threatened, and while the Guild is duly chartered in Tortall, and so subject to Tortallan law _in Tortallan territory_ , it is not only a Tortallan entity. It is also recognised in Scanra and Yaman, has immortal members who though bound by treaty to peaceful co-existence with Tortallan, Scanran, and Yamani subjects are not themselves subjects of any mortal ruler nor subject to mortal laws, and is explicitly recognised by the Dragonmeet as the seat of their embassy to the Mortal Realm. And as it was the Guildmaster, not the Countess or general, who invited King Lewis and Prince Loup to attend her here to explain the commission of an act of war by a Gallan subject, the Guild is hosting these negotiations and has its own agenda.”

Wide-eyed glances were exchanged, and Taren could see Alanna’s mouth twitching.

“Second, I also acted at Aussonne as Clanchief Hléoburh, a friend and yearmate of Sir Esmond of Nicoline who claims bloodright under Scanran law in the murder of his sister Anna, so two members of the Council of Ten, Jorvik Hamrsson, Clanchief Hamrkeng, and Ragnar Ragnarsson, Clanchief Somalkt, will be attending, primarily as observers rather than participants but also to make it clear the Council recognises my bloodright and will take a very dim view of anyone who doesn’t. So to put it simply, it is not only the House of Conté demanding an explanation of what befell its daughter and her entourage and escort, but Tortall, Scanra, and the Craftsbeings’ Guild demanding that King Lewis put and keep his house in order.”

Kel waggled a hand judiciously.

“Third, while His Imperial Majesty’s position is as yet less clear, the House of Nakuji is bound by blood to the House of Conté, and his duly deputed senior officer here, who ordered samurai and spidren troops to assist me at Aussonne, is very clear that in doing so he did not exceed his authority, so we can also licitly claim Yamani support. I have written to His Imperial Majesty, and as the ship left Mindelan the day after Princess Lianne’s recovery I expect an answer before King Lewis arrives. In any case, while the principal matter is between Her Royal Highness and Prince Loup, any agreement that satisfies them must also satisfy not only Tortall and Galla, but pass muster with the Guild and Council of Ten in matters that concern them.”

Another finger went up.

“And fourth, the primary issue is now not only a treaty, with or without a marriage, that will ensure peace between Tortall, Scanra, Yaman, and Galla, but one that also ensures civil peace in Galla. Wearing all my hats, and with the explicit approval of Lord Mithros, I determined at Aussonne that Lord Biron’s principal crime was neither the kidnap nor the murders, but what motivated them, which was high treason against King Lewis and Prince Loup, whose throne and right to inherit that throne he sought to usurp by bride-theft linked to claims of royal bastardy and firstborn precedence. It was for that he died, and so the inscription by his petrified corpse proclaims. One task, therefore, for any Gallan specialists, is a concise report on how that plays in Gallan law, but in preparing it do not forget for one second our primary concern that, in the event of a marriage, Her Royal Highness and Prince Loup should not face any civil strife now or when King Lewis dies. And one of the things that must ensure that is Galla’s formal recognition of the Guild, with full rights of organisation in Gallan territory, as in Tortall, Scanra, and Yaman. In practice that will have limited meaning for a while yet, but anything that does not concede the principle is unacceptable, and a Guild branch in Cría, like the ones in Heian-kyó and Hamrkeng, will be an immediate consequence of any agreement.”

Kel surveyed gaping faces, and held up her hand.

“Fifth and last, the whole trade issue is subject to redefinition. Besides security, the principal advantage Galla seeks through this marriage is lower tariffs on its Drell trade, which is presently its only route to the sea. Three or four years from now, however, the Vassa will be navigable from its headwaters, north and south, to Frasrlund, and if Galla shipped _up_ the Middle Drell, there’s only a short portage to connect with the Vassa — which the Guild might do something about one of these days, if it had an incentive. It would be an advantageous route for a fair part of their Scanran and Tortallan trade, and all their Yamani and Copper Isles trade, such as those are, or might be. And as control of the Vassa trade will in practice rest with haMinch, New Hope, Frasrlund, and the Council of Ten, if Galla wants access it can think, hard, about how to make us all willing to grant it.”

Beside Taren both Alanna and Var had poker faces that told him they were suppressing laughter, and Kel wasn’t done yet.

“Now, I realise all that comes as something of a surprise, and that you need clearer understandings, so I’ve arranged for further briefing over coming days. Besides the Guild’s structure and purpose, immortal concerns, the Timeway, and Scanran issues, topics will include how the Vassa is being made navigable, the improbable legal and diplomatic complexities arising from the facts that my fief, clanhome, and army command are all distinct, however they overlap, and divine concerns implicit in the threat Gallan strife, civil or otherwise, would pose to New Hope, Haven, Dragonstown, the graves of Renna Eriksdottir and Braka Haraldsdottir, and Rathhausak as emergent places of pilgrimage. Master Valestone will begin with the basics of the Guild. Your Majesty?”

“What shall I and my family do in the meantime, my lady?”

Kel grinned. “Well, sire, as you’re all already familiar with all of that, and left to your own devices will only mope around and cause trouble, I have things for you and yours to do as well. For today, there’s accompanying Ettenor and the First to Haven.” The king’s sardonic expression, which had deepened, sobered into a grave nod. “The basilisks would doubtless appreciate a word, too, and the mages — Numair did wonders co-ordinating their Gifts. And tomorrow we can go and see your newest fort, which is mostly done and, I’m told, very pretty, as well as a proper base for the King’s Own Fourth. It needs a name, too. I thought Ettenor could come along, given how involved he is in recruitment and training. You can also inspect what there is of the Pilgrims’ Way, to see where your money’s going, discuss your proposed Temple of Sakuyo and College of Arms with Master Geraint, and admire my new greenhouse.”

“Yes, we noticed that, Keladry — it’s hard to miss.” The king’s voice was very dry, but his eyes were warm. “Lead on, then, if you’ll excuse us, Master Valestone.”

And before anyone could object Kel had swept the royals out, leaving diplomats and lawyers scrambling for notebooks and quills as Master Valestone began to quote from the Guild’s Tortallan charter. Var was listening with a thoughtful look, and after a few moments Taren left her and Sam to it, slipping out and making his way to Kel’s office, where he found a wheezing Alanna being ignored by Mandrinal.

“Wasn’t it priceless? Jon and Thayet are having a family council before heading to Haven, and Kel’s gone to greet someone called Brendon of Fenrigh.”

“Ah. Army lawyer who knows about her command and fief being distinct but overlapping.”

“He’ll fit right in. Do you know she’s got St’aara taking them to the schoolhouse so the children can show them those models of the side-channels?”

Alanna dissolved into laughter again, and Taren looked at Mandrinal, who shrugged.

“They have most experience with the models, my lord, and Lady Kel thinks it’s a good idea for people to be reminded whose futures they are negotiating. We also thought that after hearing Kawit on the Timeway and its eddies, they’d be glad to get outdoors and play a little, so it’s no more than common sense, really.”

Alanna slapped her thigh alarmingly, and Taren could only agree with both of them.

 

* * * * *

 

Taren wasn’t sure if the three weeks of waiting for King Lewis went fast or slowly, for they seemed to do both. Var was away most of the time, undertaking her survey, and though he and Sam spoke with her by spellmirror every evening separation was disconcerting for all of them, an unwelcome taste of things to come. It was also strange to make the journey again through her eyes, but there was a satisfying interest in her thoughts about where to put wayhouses and even latrine pits, and the site itself had some surprises. He’d heard Kel order the dead piled and burned with Unferth, and had vaguely expected there to be traces, but besides a few scorch marks and a little soot on the rock there was nothing. At the girls’ graves, conversely, the headstone Guthlaf Eriksson had carved was as austere as Kel had wanted and beautiful besides : the thick blankets of Sakuyan flowers grew in two perfect rectangles separated by a narrow strip of lush grass, the headstone was central, spanning the strip, and the flowers had extended in a thin, beautifully curving tracery from each outer corner to circle it. When Kel saw it she sat looking for a long moment before sighing softly.

“He’s often kind, you know, for all he can be as ruthless as any of them. And he cares about aesthetics, in a very Yamani way, though whether he’s like that because they are or the other way around I have no idea. I must thank him. And Var, whatever we do there will have to be beautiful in the same way, I’m afraid, as well as functional. It’s a challenge to me, as well as a grace to the dead.”

“If you say so, Kel.” Var looked dubious. “I’m not sure I do beautiful, but I’ll think about it.”

After searching Kel’s library Taren was able next evening to show Var illustrations of Yamani shrines and gardens, green and stone, and was happy to find she agreed the whole hanging valley should be the place of pilgrimage, with all facilities in the main valley below. That brought the waterfall into play, and after an entertainingly informative conversation with an intrigued Lady Yukimi and Blessed Matsuo- _san_ he was able to suggest that _sui_ , the _kanji_ for clean, fresh water — which for reasons mysterious even to Yamanis also began a word meaning, variously, unloading a ship, retail sales, defloration, and preservation of blossoms for the art of arranging them — might offer a design. Lady Yukimi had drawn an oversize version, so Var could see it in the small spellmirror she had.

#  水

“I thought the separate bit on the left could be for the hostel keepers, with dormitories in the two long bits, messhall at the bottom with a nice view of the waterfall, washrooms at the top, and entry on the right through the bit that sticks out, with administrative offices. How many pilgrims Kel means to plan for would give you the scale. You wouldn’t see it from the ground, though the curves could look nice, but you would from the top of the path up the rockfall, especially if the rooflines were distinct.”

“It’s a lovely idea, Tar. What does Kel think?”

“I haven’t spoken to her about it, Var. I wouldn’t go behind your back on this project. It’s just a suggestion for you to consider, but the idea of a _kanji_ seemed the right sort of answer, as Lord Sakuyo worked in them himself in his Temple, fresh water’s right there, and when Lady Yukimi told me what its other associations were …”

“Yes. And thank you, Tar. I don’t say it often enough, but you are a very good brother indeed.”

The compliment left him quite emotional, and it was his evening life with Var that seemed so slow, while his days were busy and New Hope hummed at high temperature, matched by the July weather. Besides shadowing Kel, catching up on correspondence, and training, he and Sam were hastily learning Gallan, but made time to talk and eat with Vesker and his men. Taren was guiltily aware he’d left them largely to their own devices, but they assured him they didn’t feel neglected, and had plenty to do besides their own training. Vesker had arranged the teaching he’d asked for, so all now had their letters, and several had become competent in Scanran ; evenings seemed most often to be spent at _The Bivouac_ and _The Pilgrims’ Progress_ , but (Vesker assured him) the attraction was Sergeant Connac and the other veterans who ran them, not just ale, and their conversation bore it out.

The poor diplomats and lawyers received four days of concentrated briefings before Kel sliced them into small workgroups with specific tasks and a succession of deadlines, while the royals — all of whom had very much liked the new Fort Basilisk, a name Kel conceded because the basilisks themselves didn’t mind in the least — threw their weight into the scale when needed. Princess Lianne was perfectly prepared to find Prince Loup congenial, if she could, but had no wish to be anywhere near a civil war, and showed herself her father’s daughter (while he and the queen looked on, grimly approving) by flatly insisting that any marriage articles include both an irrevocable Gallan recognition of the Guild, and pensions for the families of Anna, Master Fellon, and the fifteen Ownsmen, to be drawn on Lord Biron’s attaindered estates. There was also a memorable afternoon when Kel explained, in some exasperation and with a large darking display, two things they seemed not to have realised : first, that the required Guild branch was not an expression of her desire to command any more than she already did, but intended to provide an incentive demonstration of what peaceful co-operation could achieve, so would they kindly think about other mechanisms that would help Galla to keep its own house in better order, such as tying lower Drell tariffs tightly to more effective suppression of slavery, improved education of children, and prompter investigation of claims of royal bastardy ; and second, that she had every intention of maximally intimidating King Lewis and Prince Loup before and after they arrived.

“Prince Loup rode with his father to Aussonne, people, so they’ve both had a pretty interesting month. Assuming they had no prior knowledge of what Lord Biron was about — and setting aside for now questions of what they should have known — they were getting ready to welcome Her Royal Highness when a very nasty surprise arrived. To their credit they rode for Aussonne at once, in force, and found a less nasty but even greater surprise, with a lot of layers, and heard who knows what about it from some deeply shocked subjects.”

The darkings showed, in measured succession, what remained of Aussonne’s curtain walls and keep, _le Pendu Pierreux_ , with its inscription, and the writing of Kel’s letter, with its divine duplication. Taren had wondered why she hadn’t shown them such images before, but their concerted impact now was explanation enough.

“They also received my letter, which seems to have some peculiar properties, though whether from Lord Mithros’s paper and ink, the sunbird whose feather I used as a quill, or Lord Diamondflame’s delivery of it I have no idea. In any case, it let me know when its seal was broken and its invitation accepted. So with more commendable speed they set off to come here, limiting themselves to a company as escort, and two days ago were met at the border by Lord Ferghal, General Vanget, and two haMinchi companies. I argued Ferghal down from five, but Vanget picked the largest and dourest men he could find. Tomorrow, they’ll be joined by the eldest spidren Quenuresh, with an escort of fighting ogres, on her way back here from the City of the Gods. For those of you who don’t know, she looks like this.”

The image of the great spidren somehow emphasised her size, teeth, and bristles, even before the image shifted into her swift motion and added the ogres trotting beside her, sledgehammers at port arms.

“One thing she’ll be doing at overnight stops is talking frankly to King Lewis and Prince Loup about the siege and all that’s happened. They’re bound to have questions, and she’ll answer honestly, but also offer an illusion or two — she can show them New Hope as readily as the dragon she conjured, and if their viewpoint will be more like Maggur’s than mine, so much the better. They’ll stay one night at Northwatch, and encounter an Honesty Gate, being warned about the procedure to enter here, and some additional questions I’ll be asking, so if anyone in the entourage _was_ complicit with Lord Biron there will be some sweating going on. Early on the day before they reach Dragonstown, they’ll encounter a basilisk-and-ogre working party and thereafter be on the smoothest road they’ve ever seen. At Dragonstown itself they’ll come to this” — the darkings showed Drachifethe in all its twilight glory, and eyes went even wider as jaws dropped — “and encounter a full military reception, but not primarily for them, because Jorvik and Ragnar will just have arrived, with a company of their own, all with too many axes, and will explain over dinner about my bloodright in Anna’s murder and just how seriously Scanrans take such things. They’ll also give accurate accounts of Unferth and the divine responses to his evil, along with mine. Gella, Clanchief Nihthelm, who is the strongest hedgewitch I’ve ever met, will be there too, and one or more Hounds might be about — some usually are, if only for the kitchens at _The Smuggler’s Rest_ , but I don’t command them. Then they’ll ride here, again arriving in twilight with everything lit up, and I shall be entirely respectful, polite, and implacable in receiving them.”

The darking display shifted to show the Citadel and nearer valley.

“Their company escort cannot be accommodated within the Citadel, and will go here.” A section of the limestone cliffs north of the glacis flashed. “So will the entourage, with the Scanran company alongside. King Lewis and Prince Loup can stay with them, if they want, or accept rooms in my guest-wing — their choice entirely, which I shan’t push as either works for us. I shall also explain both the framework of the negotiations, which are trilateral, between the House of Conté, for Tortall, the House of Barbonne, for Galla, and the Guild, and that Her Royal Highness has an absolute veto, because in the last analysis if she decides she does _not_ want to marry Prince Loup, she won’t, and we’re down to reparations for the murders and kidnap, and a trade agreement. And there is one other thing you should all be aware of.”

The display shifted again, and a familiar vast green shape appeared.

“That is Lord Jadewing, who has been appointed the Dragonmeet’s Ambassador to the Mortal Realm, with a brief to observe the progress dragon apprentices and journeybeings are making. He was a witness to Aussonne, is the largest dragon, and has strong views about anyone who uses brute strength to commit ravage, including Lord Biron. And thanks to Dean Kawit, he has agreed to arrive the day after King Lewis. He will _not_ have any formal part in any negotiations, but the dragons do not want any mortal wars affecting New Hope and he’ll make sure King Lewis knows that. And be very clear — real dragons are not threats for anyone to wave around, ever, but it so happens they’re willing to be frank on their own behalf in this particular matter, which is a bonus for us. So if King Lewis and Prince Loup aren’t feeling intimidated when they arrive, they soon will be.”

Kel sounded perfectly cheerful about it, the diplomats and lawyers were mostly in renewed shock, as far as Taren could tell, and the king had his sardonic look back.

“Why that bothers any of you I can’t imagine, and don’t much care. They gave reassurances that proved empty, were too busy to meet Her Royal Highness at the border, and failed to realise Lord Biron was ready to commit high treason. Seventeen Tortallans were murdered, Her Royal Highness was personally assailed and sorely grieved, and the Guild was put to the trouble of dealing with their traitor. Besides all of which, as you might have realised by now, being thoroughly spooked means it’ll be a great relief for them to find out we don’t want anything unreasonable, and that whether or not they get a marriage they can get something for the Drell trade _and_ a whole new Vassa trade they haven’t begun to think about, merely for doing properly what they ought to be doing anyway. Carrots _and_ sticks, people. Now back to work, please, and sort out what we can give them regardless, and what will be contingent on a marriage.”

And back to work they went, chastened but, Taren thought, beginning to appreciate the method in Kel’s madness and what New Hope consistently did by way of rearranging reality. Leaving them to it, he went to watch Sam, who had taken a liking to Journeyogre Ventriaju’s slings and joined a class of older children he taught, finding the royals sitting on the steps before the shrines doing the same thing. He would not have intruded, but the Queen patted the stone beside her, and once he was seated asked what it was exactly Var was up to, and might be doing next. She seemed genuinely interested, and the tale of Lord Sakuyo’s attention to the graves and possible responses to his challenge caught other royals’ attention, including Princess Shinkokami’s.

“I’ve been meaning to ask your opinion, Your Royal Highness, as one more familiar with Yamani aesthetics than Var or I can ever hope to be.”

“Yuki told me of this, Lord Taren, and Blessed Matsuo. Whether it is what the High One desires in so gracing those poor girls’ resting-place is beyond my stars, but I confess I find the idea of a _kanji_ -building interesting.” She shrugged delicately. “You know I cannot like or be easy with Keladry’s irreverence, though the High Ones allow it, but in this her piety is most proper, and _sui_ would be apposite. Certainly the place must be marked, and pilgrims provided for.”

“Mmm. I suspect the High Ones do more than _allow_ Kel’s attitude, Your Royal Highness. _Appreciate_ , perhaps. But I’m glad to know you see nothing amiss in the idea.” He shook his head ruefully. “New Hope is such an education. Who knew I’d be worrying about divine approval of the aesthetics of a building in the middle of nowhere?”

“Tell me, my lord.” The king had a glint in his eye. “Still, something has to take the place of all the protocol Keladry abrogates, and one can’t complain about the food for thought. Or the food.”

He patted his stomach and Taren grinned.

“No. I shall miss that, if not the absence of protocol. I confess, though, sire, I’m a little surprised you don’t mind Kel, um, commandeering your negotiators. I thought you’d have more of an agenda of your own.”

“Keladry anticipated it, my lord, and Lord Sakuyo was quite right that a general brief and free hand suits her far better than detailed orders. There may or may not be a marriage, but there won’t be a war and there will be improved trade. And if there is a marriage, Lianne will be as safe as waiting for any throne allows. In any case, after watching Keladry … there isn’t a verb but whack will do, whack Tortall and Yaman into better order, much to my advantage both times, I have no intention of getting between her and any Gallans who’ve annoyed her, especially as they’ve also annoyed me.”

“More than annoyed, I’d think, sire.”

“Oh yes. But it doesn’t do for kings to be scared silly, nor consumed with fury. And it’s plain enough Lewis and Loup were blindsided. No-one seems to have thought Lord Biron remotely inclined to armed rebellion, which is what it amounted to, so I imagine they’re on the annoyed side too, as well as Keladrified half out of their wits.” Taren managed not to snort, while thinking he’d have a use or three for that verb. “Any bets on what Lewis will have to say to her?”

“ _I’m very sorry_ and _thank you, most sincerely_ would seem sensible.” There was laughter. “But no, no bets, sire. I do wonder what set Lord Biron off, though, beyond seeing what he presumably supposed a danger to his pretensions and an opportunity. Who was his Unferth?”

“Good question, my lord. You think there has to be one?”

“I do, sire. Besides the Timeway and echoes, I’ve been wondering why Lord Biron’s death was necessary to stop the eddy developing. Lords Mithros and Diamondflame were clear it diminished with the rescue of Her Royal Highness, but only vanished with the execution. And we know he didn’t expect Kel, but what _did_ he think would happen?”

“Also a good question. Do you have an answer?”

Conscious of who else was listening, Taren hesitated. “It’s all speculation, sire, and less than pleasant.”

“Don’t mind me, Lord Taren.” Princess Lianne’s face was hard. “If Keladry hadn’t rescued me I’d have been raped, perhaps forced to some kind of ceremony before Lewis and Loup arrived. Then what?”

“Either some very awkward negotiations or a more conventional siege, I would assume, Your Royal Highness, involving Tortallan troops if it lasted long enough. But if Lord Biron was counting on someone high in King Lewis’s command, or several someones, saying, _oh dear, how frightful, but what’s done is done, so it’s time to make the best of a bad bargain_ , and so forth, and at the same time something nasty befell Prince Loup, already discredited by having his would-be bride stolen …” He shrugged. “Speculation, but I can’t see how Lord Biron expected to keep his head without support from somewhere King Lewis wasn’t expecting. I take it you didn’t hear anything about any other conspirators when he and his brothers were boasting?”

“No. They really were quite drunk. Fortunately.” She frowned, thinking. “But Lord Julian did say they could defy King Lewis for long enough, without saying for what. At the time I thought he meant long enough to get me pregnant, but you could be right that they were expecting something else to happen. If they were, Papa, and there is another plotter, would you think family usurpation or magnate revolt?”

The king waggled a hand, scowling. “Not enough of a distinction in Galla, which is one of its problems. The Barbonnes have been spawning collateral branches for centuries, before and since coming to that throne, so there are far too many royally privileged nobles and they’re linked to all the magnate families a dozen times over by now. Messy. Then again, poppet, Keladry agrees with Lord Taren about the other shoe, and so do I. There has to be something, and George thinks the most likely candidate is a cousin of Loup’s, Pawle, whose father, Lewis’s notoriously rakish younger brother, also Pawle, died three years back when his habits caught up with him. Frankly, I suspect Lewis heaved a sigh of relief, because he had a hard time saying no to his brother, but Pawle junior does not have the same influence, and is presently without any formal post. And if Biron really was a royal bastard, Pawle senior is an interesting candidate for his father. We’ll see.”

Taren was digesting how far short his speculations had fallen when he realised the king was giving him a cool look.

“Feeling chagrined? Don’t — congratulations are in order for thinking it through as you did. Do you also see how Kel’s ensured we _will_ see?”

“I’m not sure, sire. But logically, if there is a traitor in King Lewis’s entourage, the Honesty Gate should catch him, or them, and if there is a serious threat to his throne, his and Prince Loup’s fairly lengthy absence has to be a prime opportunity.”

“Yes and yes. Go on.”

“Well, King Lewis must know that, but was willing to come, so … there are four possibilities — he thinks he’s safe, and is right or wrong, or he thinks he isn’t, and is right or wrong. Safe and right, no problem. Safe and wrong, he can claim sanctuary here, and Galla can do whatever so long as it keeps it at home. Not safe, and right, the same, except he might be coming to ask for help. Not safe, and wrong … interesting, but he’ll have to explain what he’s afraid of.”

“And which do you think the case?”

“Unless he’s very incompetent, safe and right.”

The king laughed. “He’s not, and I agree, though Galla does have some problems building up, but one way or another, if there is a shoe to drop, it will. Righteously demanding his immediate attendance here in a manner he really couldn’t refuse, was a superb move on Keladry’s part, and asked him a dozen questions he has to answer or we’re done. My only problem is how to reward her, again, but that can wait until she’s calmed down. And you, my lord, must wait until you’re fully of age, for a variety of reasons, but once you are your father’s seat on my Council will revert to you.”

Taren blinked. “I wasn’t—”

“No, I know you weren’t, which is one reason for my decision. Stone Mountain has always been an important fief, for its wealth if nothing else, but you’re making it important for several far better reasons, my lord, and show yourself a reliable and very interesting young man. Your own man, too. Some older Councillors have been fretting about the vacancy, so I shall let it be known you’ll accede when you turn twenty-one. Congratulations, thank you, and welcome to the madhouse.”

A somewhat dazed Taren found his hand royally shaken, and Prince Roald considering him with an odd expression shared by his wife.

“It’s not that bad, Lord Taren. Used to be an exercise in frustration, but since Kel took her glaive to it we actually get things done. And with the recent, ah, turnover in membership, there is an under-fifty voting block that has to be heard, which helps as well.”

“Especially as Keladry now sways most of the over-fifties.” The queen’s smile was blinding. “It’s been such a pleasure to watch. And proxies are increasingly giving way to spellmirror attendance, which is livening things up too.” Demonstrating some technique, Ventriaju wound up properly and his shot sent the target flying. “Goddess, what _are_ those slings made of?”

“Ah, spidren-webbing braided with various fibres, Your Majesty. It was Journeyogre Ventriaju’s apprentice project, and Kel means them to be distributed cheaply and widely, as a weapon against slavers and bandits as well as marauding animals.”

“Good for her. And him. We ought to push the Army Council on slings again, Jon. Kel and Alanna can’t be there all the time, and they’re only foot-dragging because the extra training messes with their routine.”

The king raised his eyebrows. “And tends to break windows.”

“Bad discipline.” The queen waved a hand, much as Kel sometimes did. “Do you see broken windows around here?”

“There were accidents when Kel started sling training, Mama.” Prince Roald frowned. “Neal mentioned a pig that was hit by a wild shot.”

“I doubt they lasted long, dear. Kel would have been too indignant on the pig’s behalf.” Taren swallowed a snort of agreement, and received an utterly unexpected wink from Princess Lianne, also poker-faced. “And Ettenor does well enough with the First and the Fourth trainees, for all they think stones beneath their dignity.”

“That’s because he has the company mages shielding the ranges.”

“And regular companies don’t have mages too? Come on, Jon — Kel’s exactly right that it’s a basic military skill, and makes a strong case that sling regiments only fell out of use because fighting with blades came to be seen as a mark of chivalry. Awkward to use a sling in knightly armour. But Ownsmen aren’t knights, nor regular troops. You said … Ventriaju, was it, is a Journeyogre, Lord Taren?”

“He is, yes, Your Majesty — since Samradh.”

“Then we should ask Kel if we can borrow him, Jon. That last shot must have been eighty yards, and it’s cracked that plank clean across.”

“He does it at two hundred yards, Your Majesty, that I’ve seen, and probably more. You should ask Numair. He supervised the project.”

“Better and better. I want those slings for the Riders even if you don’t for the Army. Where did Kel get to, I wonder?”

“She’s talking to Lady Yukimi about new pickles using fermented orange juice, and maybe rind, I believe.”

“Sounds delicious. In her office?”

“I believe so, Your Majesty, but you might want to ask Journeyogre Ventriaju if he’s willing and able, because he’s quite busy here, and check his parents don’t mind — he’s not quite of ogre age — before asking Kel.”

“So I might. Thank you, Lord Taren.”

Deflected but not deterred, the Queen swept down to talk to Ventriaju, and her daughter and daughter-in-law followed with some trailing guards. Within a few moments all the royal women were carefully trying webbing slings, and the king exchanged a long look with his heir before quirking an eyebrow at Taren.

“Well and gently done, my lord.”

“I placed an order for two hundred slings a fortnight back, sire, and Sam negotiated with Captain Uinse the loan of a soldier as an instructor for a few weeks — a man from New Hope First whose family are near Genlith and whom Journeyogre Ventriaju has already trained. But if you _do_ want to, um, goose recalcitrant army captains, I note that General Vanget seems to have had enough rest, and might not mind some, ah, peremptory descending. He’s ordered slings for haMinchi forces.”

“And again. Thank you.” The king shrugged. “I’ve let the Army Council be because I’m already imposing the College of Weapons on them, and with peace they’ve had a lot to deal with, but I don’t mind prodding them now. Do hurry up and reach twenty-one, my lord. I need the young.”

He went to join his wife and daughters, and Prince Roald gave Taren a speculative look before smiling crookedly.

“It would be nice if he said that to me once in a while, but he’s not wrong. Kel’s shifted everything.”

“Hasn’t she? I knew it the day we crossed into New Hope, which seems years ago. She couldn’t have done it, though, if everything hadn’t been … I don’t want to say broken, but ripe for change. Have you ever seen gemstones cut?”

“No. Why?”

“I did, after I found out how many I’d inherited, and their value. The cutter looks at them for hours, turning them, using different lights, padded hammers, all sorts, sleeps on it, and eventually strides in, sets his tools, and makes one blow for each face. If he’s got it right, it’s like a hot knife through butter, and perfection emerges. They talk about the shape the stone _wants_ to be, which interested me. Long story. But for my money, Kel cuts history the same way, and it too winds up as it wants to be.”

He left Roald pondering, both aware that they’d dropped vocatives without saying so, and felt himself borne out four days later when Kel was called from supper to answer a spellmirror call, and returned after nearly an hour with a light in her eye. Senior negotiators were present, with royals, and she swept a glance round the table.

“Interesting news on two fronts, Your Majesties and Royal Highnesses, everyone. First, a reply from Yaman. His Imperial Majesty expresses dismay and fury at the insult offered the House of Conté, rejoices that no greater harm befell Her Royal Highness, warmly commends the decisions of his senior officer here — much to his surreptitious relief, I might add — and says, boiled down, that while he devoutly hopes and trusts it won’t come to that, if King Lewis or anyone else Gallan is silly enough to start a real war, we can have ten thousand samurai with as many armed spidrens as are willing, and in the meantime are entirely welcome to beat them with Yamani bogeymen.” She looked at the king. “In an enclosure, he tells Keladry- _chan_ that he is all agog at her new siege record, and Haarist’aaniar’aan likewise, allowing for immortal reserve, so could they please see a darking record? Papa will despatch one of the Mindelan darkings before he and Mama set off for here tomorrow.” Her gaze swept the table again. “And second, a chortling Vanget tells me that having had the Honesty Gate at Northwatch explained, and found for himself that it works, King Lewis promptly stood several members of his entourage under it, including Pawle junior, asked questions they could not answer satisfactorily, and placed them under close arrest. They have so far declined to explain themselves, but the Stone Tree Nation’s on its way, so that won’t last. What will happen is less than clear, but the net result is that the Gallan party is likely to be at least one extra day on the road, but should arrive with any internal problems already … known, if not necessarily fixed.”

The king silently raised his glass to Kel, and Taren heard explanations to senior negotiators about stormwings’ ability to compel speech as a burble of discussion started. Beside him, Var nibbled cheese pensively.

“You know, Tar, we ought to get Kel a tunic embroidered with _I won the fastest siege in history_ , and the silhouette of Aussonne after she’d done it, but she’d never wear it.” Var brightened. “I suppose we could have ones saying _Present at the fastest siege in history_.”

Taren only half-stifled a laugh, and beyond Var Sam didn’t bother.

“Nice one, Var. I’d wear mine. And I bet stormwings would like them.”

Across the table Alanna grinned at them. “Mine can say _Participated in_ rather than _present at_. I’d wear it too. And you should tell Jon — he has that little problem of rewarding Kel, and can hardly go bigger than last time round, so suggestions will be welcome.”

“I bet. But practical support for New Hope’s the way to go, surely? He could remit the silver tax for a year, or sponsor something. Which reminds me, do you know what happened about the queen’s scholarship for a lady knight?”

“Elsa Farrier, of Disart. First commoner for centuries, as well as first Queen’s Scholar.” Alanna had a satisfied look. “Disart doesn’t know whether to be pleased or appalled, nor do her family, but she’s happy, and so are Kel and Thayet. And Padraig, actually, who had his doubts but agrees she has what it takes and is looking forward to the challenge.”

“Good to know. Thanks.” Taren sipped wine, turning it in his mind. “A wedding present to Kel, but in effect she’s made both the king and the queen give themselves presents.”

“Oh yes. She’s sneaky like that. Tried it in Yaman too, though in the end she accepted the samurai and spidren guards, and the engineers. But she actually wanted those.”

“Didn’t she get an annual haiku as well?”

“She did, but they’re short, and she makes up her own anyway.” Alanna tilted her head. “I doubt she wants any more.”

“No.” Taren grinned. “Though art’s an idea., so long as it’s not portraits of her that grow. A good one of her parents, maybe.”

“Mention _that_ to Jon and he’ll steal it in a flash.”

As Taren very much wanted an image of Piers and Ilane himself he not only took care to do no such thing, but when they arrived, six days later, managed despite their road-weariness to secure agreement to a sitting as soon as it might be arranged. He offered Piers congratulations on Kel’s diplomatic strategy, and received a wry if searching look.

“Keladry prefers diplomacy to have more teeth than I’m quite comfortable with, Taren, but understands letting people do what she wants very nicely.” His hands moved gently. “I just shaped it a little. And it wouldn’t be working so well if King Lewis hadn’t understood what Honesty Gates are good for.”

“He was prompted, Piers, as well as lent the Stone Tree Nation.”

“Well, yes. It’s hard to see them in action and not ponder their uses.”

Pawle junior and three others of King Lewis’s entourage resided in cells at Northwatch, to be collected as he returned home, while a messenger with orders for further arrests was (with an escort) already well on his way back to Cría.

“Isn’t it? But there is one thing, that I’ve mentioned to Kel but no-one else. Her Royal Highness has talked to me several times in the last few days, as a neutral, I think, and the more she hears about Prince Loup the less she likes it. I gather the diplomats and lawyers have, ah, spoken more freely here than they did when she was, her words, being primed to go and say yes, and even if Galla’s reckoned safe from upheaval I believe she’s cooled on the idea. Her … rage isn’t too strong a word, about Anna of Nicoline is in there, but she’s also been watching Kel with Dom and the twins, and Lady Yukimi with Neal and Lady Ryokel, and … well, wondering what she’s really willing to settle for.”

“Ah. Interesting, and sharp. Thank you, Taren. Do you know what His Majesty thinks?”

“I believe he’s aware, Piers. He’s certainly been clear that Tortall doesn’t _need_ a Gallan marriage, however it might be useful.”

“What has she heard about Prince Loup?” Ilane laid a hand on his arm. “If it breaks no confidences, Taren.”

“I made no promises, Ilane. And several things. I don’t think it’s the rumours of, ah, mistresses, or even a fondness for wine, but she doesn’t like the tales of gambling, and she’s realised they think him weak. She’s also angry that they weren’t franker before.”

“Mmm. Certain interests were pushing it for more than the logic’s worth.” Ilane had a speculative look. “Perhaps we now know why. And Lianne has had a fearful fright. So do we hope he makes a good impression or not?”


	10. Chapter Nine -- Releases

**Nine : Releases**

_New Hope & Rathhausak, 18 July – 2 August 464 HE_

 

TAREN still hadn’t decided when, late next day, he stood with an official welcoming party as Kel escorted King Lewis, Prince Loup, and a dozen of their entourage up the roadway, a knot of haMinches and Scanrans behind. The Gallan royals had opted to stay with their escorts in the cliff-dwellings, a preference for illusory security Taren thought an error, and as their faces took on detail he saw a rigid lack of expression that did not conceal what he now thought of as Keladrification. Her naming the tauros skulls lining the roadway probably wasn’t helping, but her programme of intimidation had clearly done its work, and even in rigidity the faces told some tales.

The two royals were of middle height and shared a beaky nose and high forehead, but he would not otherwise have taken them for father and son. King Lewis was clean-shaven and clear-eyed, lean, with a swordsman’s walk, spoke unaccented Common, and gave an impression of controlled strength, but Prince Loup tried to hide a receding chin with a straggle of beard, was overweight, liked jewellery, and showed no sign of martial training. His Common was strongly accented, and the remark that revealed it, about the tauros skulls being so ugly he would have them removed, was both foolish and rude, earning a cool look from Kel.

“As they contain dragonfire, Your Royal Highness, that would be a fatal undertaking weakening the fixed defences, and an insult to those who yet mourn their victims and find display of their fates comforting. But allow me to present the living.”

The king and his family were holding themselves back for a strictly private meeting to precede dinner, and besides Dom, Taren and his siblings, Numair and Daine, Alanna and Baron George, Piers and Ilane with Sir Anders, and Lord Ventnor, the welcoming party was the members of Kel’s council, mortal and immortal. Queen Barzha had a perch, and Quenuresh had come up while Gallan and Scanran companies settled in, telling an amused Taren that the inaugural Stone Mountain Lecture on Practical Theology had been entertaining to deliver and, to judge by the deepening silence it had produced, disconcerting to hear. He looked forward to a fuller account, and in the meantime, after offering King and Prince bows and introducing Sam and Var, observed with interest their wariness of Alanna, extreme caution towards Var’istaan and St’aara, though Quenuresh and Queen Barzha had become more familiar, and — in King Lewis’s case — intent observation of Kel’s obvious warmth in greeting Lord Ferghal, General Vanget, and the Scanran clanchiefs. There was also King Lewis’s care to be polite to commoners of the council, while Prince Loup was clearly impatient. Alanna’s voice was a murmur in his ear.

“Five to one there’s no marriage.”

“At least. Has Loup _any_ good points besides being heir?”

“Not so’s you’d notice. And in his case that’s not a good point either.”

The impression deepened when the Prince seemed to expect the entourage to attend them in meeting King Jonathan, and looked both surprised and petulant when Kel demurred.

“Their Majesties and Royal Highnesses require a private meeting, Your Royal Highness, and I’m surprised you’d wish your apologies to be public.”

“Apologies! I—”

“Yes, apologies — to the father whose daughter you failed to protect, and the king whose subjects your father’s subjects murdered. The apology you owe me for the inconvenience of sorting it out can wait, but those are pressing, believe me.”

King Lewis’s hand on his son’s shoulder prevented further protest, and while Kel and Dom escorted the royals away Taren and Sam set themselves to entertaining and assessing members of the entourage and, just as interestingly, Jorvik Hamrsson and Ragnar Ragnarsson. Mistress Fanche and Master Saefas, as Stewards of the Citadel, were senior hosts in Kel’s absence, and after some brisk information about what was where, and what off-limits to visitors, took everyone (save Numair and a stone-faced Daine, who pleaded children) to chairs set before the shrines, where refreshments were served. Not at all coincidentally, most resident immortals, including dragons, were gathering by Quenuresh on the green, to hear about the lecture, while Captain Uinse had found it expedient to have archery practice at long range using griffin arrows — and the effects were interesting. A majority of the entourage were men of King Lewis’s stamp, lean and competent, and Taren could see eyes raking the scene, noting immortals’ easy cohesion and archers’ absurd accuracy, while the remainder divided between older men who weren’t warriors but also seemed competent, and younger ones who didn’t and he’d bet were companions of the Prince. One of the non-warriors turned out to be a diplomat with a mercantile brief, and they spoke of the Drell trade before Taren obliged the man’s oblique questions with assurances that yes indeed, the Vassa was being made navigable to the sea, and once it was Stone Mountain’s Scanran trade would go that way, via the Middle Drell, rather than on the existing more northerly route through Gallan territory. When some doubt as to the feasibility of the plan was insinuated he raised an eyebrow, observing that for one who had seen what was left of Aussonne to continue underestimating what basilisks could do to rock that was in the Guildmaster’s way seemed unwise, adding that the Yamani design for the necessary side-channels was decades old. People were circulating by shifting chairs, and a short while later he found himself beside the two Scanrans.

“That was smoothly done, Lord Taren, though I cannot entirely blame them for not having fully appreciated what Clanchief Hléoburh can do.”

“Have any of us managed that, Clanchief Hamrkeng?”

They both laughed.

“Of course not. And Jorvik will do, if you’re willing. One of the many things we like about Kel is her distaste for protocol, and she speaks well of you.”

“And Ragnar.”

“Taren, then.” Hands were shaken. “May I ask about the present state of Clan Beorhtscyld?”

The answers were mixed — it still existed, but its numbers would be dropping, as Kel feared, for while Scanrans could admire a challenge to a Clanchief they had uncompromising views about murdering one, and even more so one’s family. Conversation slid sideways to Queen Barzha and stormwing needs, before circling back to Unferth, what Var was about, and the putative cleansing of Rathhausak.

“Kel’s wondering what to make of the castle when it’s melted. Suggestions are welcome and any strong feelings should be made known.”

“Ah.” Jorvik looked at Ragnar for a long moment. “It is a while since I had to make anything of a melted castle. What is the current fashion?”

Taren grinned. “Kel’s about to set one. But she has been, for once, ducking the issue, I think because she doesn’t like at least one of the more obvious answers.” Ragnar cocked his head enquiringly. “Well, what’s needed is a memorial, a memorial should tell a tale, and the way New Hopers tell their tales is already established.”

“Panels!” Ragnar grinned widely. “However they offend her modesty. Yes, Castle Rathhausak melted into … what? A great circular wall with panels telling its sorry tale?”

“Or happier tale, Ragnar. I’m not sure where it would start, and it could borrow from the messhall panels, maybe, but it would end with the transformation of the ruins, and release of the sundered spirits.” An idea clicked. “And I’ve no idea if it’s practical, nor any clear image of the site, but do you know about the way basilisks adjusted the thickness of stone in the Temple of Sakuyo they built, so light shone through in an image of the god?”

“We were told.” Jorvik shook his head. “I confess I cannot imagine.”

“I … hang on a minute.”

Taren trotted down to the circle of immortals, apologised for interrupting, and asked Quenuresh if Iron might show the Scanrans how light fell in the Edoan Temple of Sakuyo, it being hard to describe or imagine, Kel having allowed others to see that darking display, and the matter being relevant in discussing what to do at Rathhausak. Both Iron and Quenuresh were willing, so he carried the darking back, asking it to show the Temple from outside first, and if the chairback would be a suitable thing to flatten on.

“Anywhere good. You want all see?”

“I think the Gallans will want to see, and that it’s good if they do.”

And they did, of course, conversation falling away as he shifted his chair, Iron spread out, and the laughing _kanji_ -face of Lord Sakuyo spread across his temple’s dome appeared. The brief commentary Kel had offered when he’d first seen it was etched in memory, and he took care to speak so all who wanted to could hear, of _jest_ and _tranquility_ cohering into the god. Hearing a disbelieving question about how _that thing_ stayed upright, he added Kel’s phrase about a sideways arch and suggested a look at her greenhouse before Iron’s display took them inside, revealing the image he wanted snd — Iron’s fun, he assumed — Kel beside a furiously painting Lord Sakuyo while massed mortals gaped and Lord Diamondflame observed with a look at once, to Taren’s now educated eyes, deeply amused and intently interested. The glowing projection of the _kanji_ -portrait hung above them all.

“Thank you, Iron. There you go, Jorvik, Ragnar. Basilisk-sculpted light. What I was imagining at Rathhausak wasn’t just panels, but panels thinned or inset in some reshaping of the castle so the sun illuminates them for those within.” Without looking round he let his address broaden. “Clanchief Hléoburh will be using the grace of the Black God, gifted to her at Aussonne, to cleanse the site of Castle Rathhausak, where the late Blayce the Necromancer” — no need to mention that he’d been Gallan — “murdered so many, by releasing any sundered ghosts to the Peaceful Realm. The castle itself will be basilisk-melted, but into what? Light is an important element in making memorials, I discover, and this temple an interesting model.”

“That’s one way of putting it, Taren.” Kel’s voice was very dry, and he turned to see her standing beside Dom, a hand on his shoulder while his arm encircled her waist. “Are you trying to foist _more_ panels on me?”

“Not in the least, Kel — merely soliciting available Scanran opinions on one possible form of the, um, well, in Old Ogric the very short title would be _The Song of the Remade Stones of Castle Rathhausak, Once Witnessing the Great Offences of Blayce the Necromancer Against the Black God, with that High One’s Grace to the Wrongly Slain and Condign Punishment of the Wicked, Concerning Their Being Remade by the Protector of the Small to Honour Both Gifts_. Or to that effect.”

Kel and Dom laughed, as did Jorvik and Ragnar, and he heard basilisk hisses and rumbustious ogre chortles while Gallans looked confused.

“Very short title indeed, Tar. I don’t doubt Earfiller will lengthen it.” For all her laugher Kel’s shrug was resigned. “More heroic me, though?”

“Inevitably. But it depends where the tale starts. Blayce’s birth? Maggur’s rise? It doesn’t have to be you taking down that first killing device and hearing the poor child’s voice. And it’s where you first called _blódbeallár_ on Maggur — is all that business in there?”

“Should it be?”

Curiosity had replaced resignation, and he shrugged in turn.

“For my money, Kel, probably. You’ve taught me to look for patterns, and one I see is that Maggur instinctively put his greatest horror, his worst crime, in his home fief, the place he knew best and the first thing you took from him. Put another way, if Blayce hadn’t been at Maggur’s clanseat, you couldn’t have used _blódbeallár_ as you did in the siege.”

“No, I couldn’t.” Kel nodded ungrudgingly. “A thought I’ve had more than once, Tar. Gods know what the panellists will come up with, if we go this way, but that’s their problem. Still. _Lighted_ panels?”

“Yes. What duty did you lay on your successors as Guildmaster?” Intuition flared. “And I wonder if the Staff of Light might have something to say to those panels.”

She looked at him for a long minute, before nodding. “I hear you. And I think my shrine to the Goddess is repaid several fold, Tar, between this and your _kanji_ -building, which I genuinely like. Even so, you’re in charge of parsing panels. Or Var. Just not me. In the meantime, everyone, we can go in to dine, though Their assorted Majesties and Highnesses may be a course or two late in joining us.”

With a little lingering over a cold-soup starter it was only one course, but the private meeting had clearly not been happy. All the Tortallan royals and King Lewis had set faces, though they made polite noises, while Prince Loup failed to hide either being offended or sulking, though he clearly approved of the food. Taren, with Sam and Var, did his best to keep talk flowing, hearing of the Gallans’ hard ride, the shock still gripping Aussonne with the uncertainty of who would inherit, and offering explanation of memorials and some account of reforms at Stone Mountain. He was intermittently aware of Piers and Ilane, at the far end of the table with Lord Ventnor, surprising Gallans by detaching trade and security issues from the putative marriage, and did what he could to support them, shifting his conversation to the complexities of New Hope as fief, clanholding, and dragon-recognised seat of the Guild that hosted their embassy. A military Gallan opposite him blinked.

“The Guild, yes. We were, I confess, surprised Countess Keladry used her, ah, Guild rank in her letter.”

“You need to count her hats. Her duty of succour to the Princess arose from her Tortallan nobility and military rank, but she was that day involved in long-planned and important Guild business involving immortals visiting from great distance, and they objected to it being delayed by Lord Biron’s treason and the wars it would have started, so the matter was taken in hand. A siege by Gallan or Tortallan troops would have taken weeks, and been of no use to the Princess. The Guild managed it in twenty-three minutes, or twenty-eight counting from first arrival on Gallan soil, and we were back here less than three hours after news of the Princess’s kidnap came in. Even Lord Mithros was impressed.”

Another blink. “As well he might be. But you speak of it as certain.”

“He was observing not far from me, and I had the honour to hear some of his remarks.” Eyebrows rose. “Gods often happen around the Countess, as I expect those of Aussonne told you. From your point of view, though, what matters is that while Tortall has multiple treaties with immortals of many kinds about peaceful and profitable coexistence, it does not command and cannot ask for their logistical or military services. The Guild, however, in a cause they approve, can, and did.”

“I … see. I doubt the late Lord Biron intended to … inconvenience the Guild.”

“Nor did the equally late Lord Fujiwara in Yaman, if you know about that, but he’s now stone too. Offending immortals tends to be a final mistake. Though there is a distinction, come to think of it, in that Fujiwara actually died by petrification, while what we’re calling _le Pendu Pierreux_ ” — listening Gallans winced — “died as he murdered Lady Anna of Nicoline, and was petrified only by way of providing a lasting reminder that treason is rarely a good idea.”

“And which hat was the Countess wearing at that time?”

“All of them, including Clanchief Hléoburh, who claims bloodright in Lady Anna’s death.”

“Ah yes. We have heard about that.” The Gallan glanced at Jorvik and Ragnar, talking with Prince Roald. “It all seems very complex.”

“Or simple. Distance and a stone wall were impeding the rescue. Dragons removed one, and basilisks the other.” There was much blinking, and Taren suppressed a smile. Wuodan did, after all, have a point. “My strong advice is to be rigidly honest and as straightforward as you can in anything that affects the Countess-Protector. She has a habit of dealing with complications both swiftly and radically.”

“So we have seen. And that seems wise advice.”

It was advice the Gallan negotiators seemed to follow over the next few days, and if they were more than surprised to find trade concessions tied not to any marriage but to such matters as better suppression of slavery and improved education, they were willing enough to take advantage. As the reality of what was beginning to happen to the Vassa sank in (St’aara’s models proving handy), they also began to appreciate that imposing the Guild’s egalitarian attitude to profits on those wanting to use its achievements would drive significant change in Galla. Listening carefully, Taren also heard their developing realisation that the purpose was Gallan stability through prosperity, some less guarded remarks revealing a worried awareness that without King Lewis — and especially with King Loup — Galla might well be in real trouble. Kel was in effect trying to head it off at the pass, and as Taren learned more about the burden of idle nobility Galla bore he wondered if someone had been warning her about it — Baron George, perhaps — or if she or an older immortal had been considering the Timeway and seeing something brewing they didn’t like the look of.

Then again, there was one of those closer to hand. Prince Loup continued by turns petulant and sulkily silent, though he had been subdued since the arrival of Lord Jadewing. Taren had been on Kel’s terrace, listening with her, Prince Roald, and others to Prince Loup and a pal boasting at length of some hunting exploit that involved servants driving game into range, and wondering why King Lewis did so little to check the fool, when Lady Icefall had scampered up to Kel with an excited look.

“Thank you, Icefall. I’ll be there directly.”

“How dare that beast interrupt me? Younglings should have better manners.”

Taren saw Kel’s mask drop over her face, but the flatness of her voice told its own story.

“In the first place, Your Royal Highness, Lady Icefall is a dragon, not a beast, and any repetition of your extremely foolish insult will have consequences you won’t like. In the second, I asked her promptly to relay the news she has just brought me, and the business of New Hope does not wait on your convenience. In the third, though yet unfledged, she is more than two centuries older than you, and it shows. And in the fourth, though I really don’t recommend it, you can take up any complaint you wish with her father, who is about to arrive, so you’ll have to excuse me. Roald, let your parents know, and ask them to bring King Lewis to be introduced?”

“Of course, Kel.”

They left the Prince spluttering, but his complaint trailed away as the vast green shape of Lord Jadewing landed on the ranges, to be formally yet warmly greeted by Kel. Taren remarked that Lord Jadewing was the new Ambassador of the Dragonmeet to the Guild, and as they watched Tortallan royals say hello and King Lewis be introduced added that magical strength was proportional to size. Then Lord Jadewing’s gaze swung towards them.

_The visiting mortal called Loup will attend his father at once._

The Prince froze, and after a moment Taren raised an eyebrow.

“Delay is not an option, Your Royal Highness.”

“But …”

“No buts with dragons.”

“I will not be ordered about like some commoner.”

That bit of petulance was spoken loudly, and despite an additional summons from his father, waving him in, the Prince turned his back. Taren almost expected him to stamp a foot, and was wondering how to proceed when he saw Kel speak to Lord Jadewing, with a gesture. A second later a tendril of green magic wrapped around Prince Loup and lifted him in a rapid, squawking arc to be set down, hard, beside King Lewis, with Lord Jadewing’s great head barely a foot in front of them. The other Gallans on the house terrace gaped, and Taren shrugged.

“I did tell him delay wasn’t an option.”

Whatever draconic warning — or clarification of interests — Lord Jadewing delivered to the Gallan royals was private, and if it didn’t have quite as great an effect as Lord Diamondflame’s chastisement of Junior, Prince Loup did thereafter seem to grasp that mortal rank alone cut very little ice with immortals. He still sulked and pouted, but more quietly, and if he made no contribution to any negotiation that Taren saw, neither did he impede them, seeming uninterested in the trade and political issues that were absorbing his father and the competent men of his entourage. He also declined to attend dawn training, as most Gallans were, including soldiers of the escort, very much on their mettle — and that cut two ways, for Princess Lianne noted his absence with a disdainful sniff, while Gallans, once they’d absorbed the shock of seeing Kel fight armed spidrens with  _katana_ and one-handed glaive, Scanrans trying axes against ogric sledgehammers, and the other casual marvels of New Hope, noted that the Princess, like all the royal women, regularly trained at arms.

The Prince’s formal irrelevance to what was going on was confirmed on the sixth day, when Taren found himself, with all Tortallan nobles present, summoned by the king. Larger spaces all being in use, the meeting was in the common-room of Kel’s guest-wing, and after the royal party had swept in, guards securing the doors, Princess Lianne took the floor, her face set but determined.

“My lords and ladies, thank you for coming so promptly. I have decided any marriage to Prince Loup would be insupportable, and I will shortly so inform his father. I ask you to bear witness.”

Taren wasn’t sure why witness was wanted, and the decision wasn’t unexpected, but supposed interests that had pushed for the marriage might need placating. What unfolded, though, was far more complex than he had imagined. King Lewis was attended by one senior companion, a Lord Dorlinnes, and even as he was invited to take a seat looked resigned, holding up a hand.

“You decline a marriage, lady.”

“I decline a marriage with your son, Your Majesty, yes. I could overlook some of his evident vices, but not his combination of weakness and arrogance.”

“You could be the making of him.”

“Or he could be the death of me.”

King Lewis sighed. “I won’t argue. My marriage to his mother was political, and she was … unwell for a long time after his birth. Doting on him seemed to help her, and I was busy. It got out of hand. And when she died, four years ago, I found him much as you do now. Ah well. But while I understand your decision, lady, it leaves me with a present problem, and perhaps all of us, alas, with a future one.”

“Marriage to me would not avert that problem, Your Majesty. But I know why a marriage-tie between our kingdoms is desirable for Tortall, and you are a widower. If you wish to exclude Prince Loup from the succession and start over, I will accept an offer of marriage from you.”

There was a humming silence while King Lewis stared at the Princess, and exchanged a look with Lord Dorlinnes. His voice gentled.

“I am honoured and flattered, lady, but I fear it will not do. Besides the finite chances of my living to see a new son to his majority, should we be granted one, the politics of my marriage to Loup’s mother still apply. She was a second cousin, from the Barbonnes du Nord, and they will not readily relinquish their claims.”

“If Prince Loup proves as bad a king as he is a prince, they won’t have anything left to claim.”

“It will not be as bad as that, lady.”

“So we must hope, Your Majesty. May I ask where you now stand on the matters I would have insisted form part of any marriage articles?”

“I will see the pensions are paid, lady. Using Biron’s estates is proper enough, though the attainder cannot last — someone must inherit there.”

“Or be instated, Your Majesty.”

“Perhaps.” One king glanced at another. “Your father has of late had a freer hand in such matters than I can readily afford.”

“You have an opportunity.”

“To instate whom?”

“Anyone competent you need to reward who isn’t a Barbonne, of any degree. And ideally a commoner.”

Unexpectedly, Lord Dorlinnes grinned. “Sound advice, sire. And with Biron for ever looking on, it will not be hard to discourage claimants.”

“I will think on it, Armand. Gods know some fresh blood would be welcome. As to your other request, lady, I was suspicious, as you know, for the Craftsbeings’ Guild is a new and fearsome thing, but in this my mind has changed completely.” He turned to offer Kel a half-bow. “It is an astonishing weapon of peace that you have forged, Countess, and are using as you do your glaive, with great force and accuracy. This new Vassa trade is a godsend, and your financial mechanisms an answer of a kind I have long been seeking. Galla will recognise the Guild as Scanra and Yaman do, and my weight will be behind getting the necessary laws passed, however some knocking of heads will be needed.”

Kel nodded. “Well and good, Your Majesty. Find us a site in Cría, and a basilisk-and-ogre team throwing up a dome will do some of that for you.”

“I dare say it might.”

“It has elsewhere. But something still has to be done about Prince Loup. What he needs is a spell in the army, without rank and under a good sergeant. Would your Barbonnes du Nord object if you mislaid him for a year or two, in a sensible cause?”

King Lewis blinked. “ _Mislaid_ … _You_ would take him?”

“No. I’ve enough to do. Vanget?”

“May I speak plainly, Your Majesty?”

The General’s northern burr was marked, and King Lewis nodded.

“Please do.”

“The army takes minor scions not unlike your son all the time, breaks them down, and builds them up again. There’s always a deal of screaming and sulking at first, but when it gets them nowhere they start to learn. You know it as well as I do. Thing is, though, haMinches and the Council of Ten are forming a new, oversize joint company to patrol the badlands around our mutual borders. Basic training is just starting. We’re looking ahead to this Vassa trade, among other things. Not so far from your borders, either — sort of thing your heir ought to know about anyway. And frankly, given the state he’s in, I doubt you can rely on any marriage to be the making of him. Iron hand’s going to be needed.” Vanget shrugged. “I have two of those.”

King Lewis’s surprise had given way to a considering look. “I do know it, of course, General, and would have used my own army if I had a single officer whom Loup could not overrule, and if any company into which I were to place him would not immediately fall into disarray. But I had not considered … well, foreign service. And yet. Mmm. Allow me to be frank in turn. Why would you do this? It would not be pleasant.”

“I’m going to be doing it anyway, Your Majesty. One more soldier’s no problem, so long as that’s what he is. And beyond that, well, haMinches don’t want unrest in Galla any more than Kel or His Majesty do. Besides, Kel asked me to consider it, and as I count myself deeply in her debt …”

“Whatever for, Vanget?”

Kel sounded genuinely surprised, and the General grinned.

“Oh, this and that, Kel. Winning me a war. Building pretty forts. Home-grown haMinchi oranges. Seeing a twenty-three-minute siege.”

“Oh piffle.” Kel flapped a hand. “Actually, I was thinking of Gothas and his friends.” She glanced at King Lewis. “Troublemakers among my wartime refugees, whom on Vanget’s advice I … donated to the army. Do you know what happened to him?”

“He reformed, Kel, and is still serving, in the eastern hill country somewhere. Made corporal a few months back, I gather. Lost track of the friends, though.”

“Well, if Vanget’s regime made a future corporal out of Gothas, Your Majesty, it could make something out of Prince Loup.” Kel’s hand rested on Dom’s arm. “It might not be a pretty something — corporals often aren’t, and where such beautiful sergeants come from is one of the great mysteries — but it’ll be a more competent and disciplined something. And in the meantime, you’d have his allowance to … redirect.”

“Now _that_ is a thought. Armand?”

“Du Nord knows something has to be done. He won’t like it, but I think he’ll abide.”

“And you?”

“None of us have been able to offer you or Galla a better hope. And hope seems to be what the Countess deals in.”

“Yes, it does. I will sleep on it.” He looked at Kel. “When we arrived, Lady Keladry, you mentioned an apology due to you, but have not pursued it. From my admitted complacency about a byblow of my brother’s who had never caused me any trouble to the disruption of your Guild business seems a far step, even now, but for what it may be worth I regret any imposition. I will, though, thank you, sincerely, both for so astonishingly ensuring that Her Royal Highness suffered no more seriously, and for the brutal efficacy of your justice. I would have welcomed a trial no more than King Jonathan, nor whatever Pawle might have done had I not arrived at Aussonne to find the lady gone and Biron already dead. I am also as grateful for as I was surprised by the combination of an Honesty Gate and the, ah, services of the Stone Tree Nation in securing full and witnessed confessions from Pawle and others. I thought that would be a very bad business, but you made it easy. So one might say you have twice cauterised wounds that might have bled very badly.”

“That would have bled Galla and Tortall white, Your Majesty. Don’t doubt it. None who see the Timeway did, even Lord Mithros, and you really do need to think about how Biron and Pawle could have brought about a three-way civil and foreign war, because while I’m not sure they realised it they were all set to do exactly that. But I gladly accept your regret and thanks as a line drawn under the Guild’s involvement, and you and Her Royal Highness have settled Tortall’s concerns with the pensions, so we’re down to trade issues and they’re coming right along.”

“Yes, they are. And you would like us gone.”

“It’s just that I have other things piling up, Your Majesty, some of which shouldn’t wait.” Kel shrugged, hand still on Dom’s arm. “The Black God’s gift is making me itchy. When there was nothing I could do about Rathhausak, I had to wait, but now there is I find I … object to doing so. Those poor spirits have been astray for too long already.”

There was a silence, and King Lewis shook his head, not in negation.

“You say it so calmly, Lady Keladry. Yours is a very strange life.”

“Tell me, Your Majesty. But I’m not repining, and whatever the scale, it’s only doing what needs to be done.” She looked at King Lewis and Lord Dorlinnes for a moment, then at King Jonathan. “I’ll probably regret this, I have no idea what there will be to see, except some demolition work, and the logistics could get messy, but assuming Jorvik and Ragnar have no objections, would you wish to come?”

King Lewis blinked. “To Rathhausak?”

“Yes. It’s about eighty miles from Dragonstown, so a fair step out of your way home, but as basilisks will be at work you could legitimately call it research into what happened at Aussonne. And though I don’t expect gods to attend, save perhaps Lord Weiryn, as it’s within his territory, others may come.” Kel frowned. “I can’t see the shape of it, but … the demolition is just basilisk business, but purging and reshaping molten rock is more dragon-sized. Like the statues on Drachifethe, but less consequential.”

There was another silence, until Kel shrugged and looked round.

“It’ll come clear when I’m there. And unless something else comes up, I shall be going next week. How many should I plan on having to feed?”

Taren unhesitatingly raised his hand, and so did everyone else, including all Tortallan royals and King Lewis. Kel sighed at Dom.

“You said the logistics would get messy.”

Dom patted her shoulder. “Not to fret, love. It’s all in a good cause, and it’ll still be easier than the last time.”

 

* * * * *

 

Jorvik and Ragnar, if surprised, were clear that Clanchief Hléoburh’s guests could go anywhere in her clanholding she invited them, and arranged by spellmirror for others of the Council of Ten to attend to meet King Lewis and pay respects to King Jonathan and Queen Thayet, as well as indulging their curiosity. News that a second mission to Rathhausak was imminent ran through New Hope like wildfire, with many effects. Those who had once lived there, including Zerhalm and Irnai, were at once relieved and apprehensive, eased, excited, and melancholy, and there was a great deal of speculation about what Kel would need to do for the sundered, and decide to do with the castle. In parallel, Taren with Sam and Var tracked down former panel-designers and carvers and marshalled meetings to parse the tale of Rathhausak, taking advantage of the Scanran presence to fill out how (and even why) Maggur had done what he had. Taren also asked Baron George and Numair about Blayce, and was able to relay an outline of his path towards his vilest blasphemy, though after Kel’s pointed remark that when it came to panels twelve seemed a nice round number it was agreed his story was not needed. The restriction proved helpful, and far sooner than Taren had expected a basic outline was in place — six panels telling a tale of Rathhausak alone, once proud, coming to Maggur, and under Blayce changing into a murderous blight that turned living children into dead killing devices and tyrannised adults ; and six more telling a tale of Kel from first encounter with a killing device and its sorrowing spirit to the kidnap, rescue with declaration of _blódbeallár_ , victory, release of the sundered, and castle-melting — and detailed design and carving began.

As negotiations were largely concluded, and what remained more slog than substance, King Lewis and the Tortallan royals found themselves at uncommon leisure, not to say loose ends, and (deftly encouraged by Kel) took advantage. The kings spent time together, trading military and other memories, while Queen Thayet talked to immortals and was co-opted by St’aara for a day to talk to the delighted children, and the Crown Couple took long rides and walks around the valley, talking animatedly about — Taren suspected but did not ask — Kel and her ways. Princess Lianne was left as odd one out, not least, Taren belatedly realised, because without Anna of Nicoline she had no-one to relax with — no _friend_ who wasn’t also a preoccupied sibling. He drew her into some discussion of the panels, and had an animated discussion about how _her_ story might be empanelled that became a mutual confession of sorts, of the fear that had gouged at her, bone-deep, being in Biron’s power and seeing Anna die, with the blistering wonder of what had followed ; and of what Joren had meant to his childhood, the long-sustained burdens of fear and hatred, duty to protect Sam and Var, and growing contempt for his father, exasperation with his mother, and his own slower experience of blistering wonder that followed. They had common ground in a deep gratitude to and admiration of Kel, and, more oddly, a difficulty of friendship beyond siblings whose blood could be counted on to be thicker than water — one reason Anna had been precious to Lianne — so she became the first outsider to whom Taren spoke of his informal adoption of Piers and Ilane as admirable parents, and the first person save Var to appreciate fully the blessed and bittersweet ironies of it all.

Piers and Ilane themselves, with Sir Anders, Dom, Tobeis, and Alanna added a thread of qualified but genuine concern for Kel’s wellbeing in doing whatever it was she was going to do. Divine gifts were all very well, but not so good for mortal frames, and Dom had no wish ever again to watch over an emaciated and stone-still Kel sleeping off the damage, so while prayers were offered at shrines, both at the Citadel and Haven, quiet words were also had with Lord Jadewing, for relay to Lord Diamondflame, Numair and Daine, and Irnai, to pass on if she would to Lady Shakith. Dom also reported, after bearding Kel, that she truly didn’t know what would be needed with the sundered spirits, but trusted she would when she needed to, and was increasingly possessed of convictions that (a) there was a lot of perfectly good ashlar at Rathhausak that shouldn’t be wasted — a proposition Taren strongly agreed with — and (b) that whatever had to be cleansed should become something simple, stark, and clean.

“Her logic both entrances and baffles me, you know.” Dom sipped wine reflectively. “Making killing devices by assembling Scanran ambition, dead children, Gallan necromancy, giants’ bones, and Tortallan metalwork was unreasonably complicated, and bitterly dark, so any memorial to their destruction should be unreasonably simple, and gloriously light. It’s no wonder she and Wuodan get on so well.”

There wasn’t much one could say to that, but after a moment Taren tried.

“It’s like a god’s-eye view, I think, Dom. We’re down here in the middle of it all, but they’re not, and Kel … sometimes isn’t. You know the way she tends to trail off when the, um, lingering effects of the Staff of Knowledge come up?”

“Intimately, Tar.”

“Why is that, do you suppose?”

“I have a dozen ideas, or none.”

“Oh. Well, I’ve found myself wondering if it isn’t because that … what do I know, but glimpse of godhead, let’s say, makes her _sympathise_ with them. She’d much rather feel able to whack most of them with her glaive, but finds she can’t, honourably, at least.”

Dom laughed, and so did Ilane and Sir Anders, though Piers frowned.

“It’s a thought, Tar, and probably not so wide of the mark. She prays _for_ as much as _to_ the Black God, certainly. But why do you think it’s like a god’s-eye view?”

“How the memorial _should_ be, you said, taking into account, well, almost everything. Not that I ever saw one, and if I had I dare say I’d have run away gibbering, but who else looks at a killing device and sees all that went into it, mortal and immortal, from three nations? And the sorrows radiating from it, sundered spirits and living mourners alike?”

“Huh.” Alanna nodded. “Point, Taren. Kel does tend to be comprehensive. What does _unreasonably simple_ mean, though, Dom?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. But you saw killing devices — they were … all assemblage, domes and coated bones and wires and blades turning and twitching, so I’m guessing a very … clean geometrical shape, if that makes sense.”

“Plenty. But what sort of clean shape?”

There was some silence before Taren shrugged, and sat forward.

“It needs somewhere for the panels to go, Alanna, and they ought to be set so light comes through them.” Taren turned it in his mind. “The Guild does things in curves, too. I can’t draw like Var, but suppose you had a shape like a fan sticking up from the ground at a steepish angle, curved a bit, like a strung longbow, and with a … I’ll say fold in it. Like this.” His crooked his hands slightly, to show the curve, and traced the shape in his mind, palms angled towards himself, rising and moving steadily away and apart for the lower part of the fan, tilting into profile for the fold and coming towards him, though still widening, and turning back to move away again for the upper part. “Panels in the fold, to catch the light, and with the curve they’d project themselves into a row on the ground in the shadow it cast. Or not the ground, but a flat strip of rock, set at the same angle as the fold so the projections wouldn’t be distorted. Is that simple enough?”

Dom was giving him an odd look. “Who knows, Tar? But get Varia to draw it, and I’ll show Kel. You seem to have a gift for … imagining memorials.”

Taren flushed but others nodded, and Ilane’s voice was warm.

“Yes, you do, dear. It’s intriguing. We could do with one at Mindelan for poor Conal and the others who died in that wolfship attack. On the foreshore, maybe. And one for those lost at sea.”

“There are voices on the Army Council who wanted one for the dead of our wars. The idea never went anywhere because no-one could agree what, or where, but even now a focus for the grief of the Immortals War would be good, and even more so for the Scanran War.” Alanna gave a crooked grin. “Though I bet Kel would want dead immortals and Scanrans remembered too. Think of it as a challenge.”

Taren flapped a hand, as Kel sometimes did, and there was laughter, but the ideas stuck with him, firing imagination, and after Alanna talked to the king Jonathan made it clear he’d consider any detailed and costed proposal seriously. More pressingly, when Kel saw Var’s drawings, which refined Taren’s notion and made it workable in engineering terms by connecting the folded, curved fan and the strip of rock receiving the projections, balancing the whole with a foundation to hold it secure, she gave immediate assent, and sent both Taren and Varia a deep shade of pink by hugging them both.

“Perfect.”

Which made the panels a matter of urgency, and Taren spent several days chivvying carvers while organising, with Var’istaan’ and Numair, the process of taking moulds and turning completed wooden panels into properly coloured ice-light replicas. The happiest person was the carver assigned the final panel, who now knew what he had to carve, and in discussing it with him intriguing refinements suggested themselves. Busy as Taren was, he still observed the bustle of preparation, civil and military, and the growing interest of all immortals, not so much in the memorial itself as in the magical co-operation that would be needed. And with everyone else he saw Prince Loup make a prize idiot of himself, and seal his immediate fate. Taren thought it might have been wiser to keep the Prince in the dark until he was left behind surrounded by haMinches, but after King Lewis privately spelt things out to his son one evening he stewed all night, and during the next dawn training stamped up to Kel, red-eyed and puce with fury, his pals trailing him.

“You have poisoned my father!”

He spoke loudly, and silence fell like a stone as training ceased. Kel only raised an eyebrow.

“I have done no such thing, Your Royal Highness. He’s over there.”

“You’ve fed him this nonsense about my serving in the army. _Serving!_ ”

“Oh, that. I certainly recommended it to him.” Kel’s voice acquired a cutting edge. “And with good and pressing reason. Have you bothered to ask yourself _why_ Lords Biron and Pawle moved against you? _You_ , not your father. They weren’t chafing under his rule, only anticipating yours and understanding what a disaster it will be, which is why they could have commanded wide support. You’re idle, dissipated, unfit, and untrained, in body as in mind, not to mention rude, arrogant, and foolish. And as things stand, if you inherit the Gallan throne you’ll lose it in three years. At most. Your father is seeking to save your life, as well as prevent a civil war that will inevitably spill over Galla’s borders.”

The puce deepened alarmingly. “You cannot insult me like that. I demand satisfaction.”

The silence became arctic, despite the day’s warmth, and Taren saw King Lewis’s face go blank with shock.

“Now _that_ is amazingly stupid of you.”

“Get your sword.”

A thread of amusement entered Kel’s voice. “I don’t know the custom in Galla, but everywhere else the person challenged has choice of weapons.” Kel borrowed a glaive from the woman she’d been sparring with, and tossed it to Prince Loup, who just caught it. “I choose glaives.”

The puce faded to a flabby white. “But I can’t use this!”

“You should have thought of that before you challenged a clanchief who is a master of it.” Ragnar’s voice was hard. “Not that any weapon would alter the outcome. And as you did not follow proper form, and are neither Scanran nor among Clanchief Hléoburh’s Tortallan clansmen, but a Prince of Galla, you have also just declared war on Scanra.”

“What?”

“You heard Clanchief Somalkt, Prince Loup.”

“But that Scanran stuff was just to cover your killing Biron! Dorlinnes said so.”

Kel’s voice flattened. “I doubt it, and if he did he was wrong. I am Countess, Clanchief, Guildmaster, and Protector, all four. By Tortallan liege-oath I am bound to obey King Jonathan, who will not intervene in this, and by Scanran law I could cut you down where you stand and no man would deny my right. A clanchief’s rule is far more absolute than any king’s. Nor can your father any longer save you from your own folly — he wants no war with Scanra, nor with me, and however he loves you he will not spend Gallan blood to save yours.”

As Kel spoke Prince Loup’s head turned to look first at King Jonathan, then at his father, equally unmoving, and when he turned back he found her glaive at his throat. She held it one-handed, at maximum extension but rock-steady until she moved it to glide down one cheek, pass under his chin, and up the other cheek before withdrawing. A long tangle of scraggly beard fell away, drifting on the breeze, and the Prince stared at it before shouting rage and clumsily swinging the glaive he was misholding. His blade met Kel’s, and stopped dead while hers didn’t move. Astonishingly, instead of disengaging he tried to force her blade aside, and after a second something too fast for Taren to follow happened that had the Prince’s glaive wrenched from his hands and spinning away in an arc, to be deftly caught by its original owner. Kel’s glaive was again steady at his throat, until she spun it in a blur to whack his shoulder with the butt, driving him to his knees, and back again to rest the blade once more against his skin.

“You lose, Your Royal Highness, and your life is forfeit.” Kel’s voice was oddly distanced. “The last throat my glaive rested on was Maggur’s, before I asked Queen Barzha to cut off his head, and he was a killer who deserved to die while you are very little more than a fool. Tell me, how many men have you ever killed? Not helpless animals driven into your range, but men, who would have killed you if they could.”

Her only answer was a gasping swallow.

“I’ll take it that’s a none, and like your general immaturity, it shows. You are very badly out of your depth here, and need to realise it. Even disregarding the siege I’ve lost count of my dead, and including it my answer to that question is somewhere in the mid-two-thousands. Think about it. I don’t pray to the Black God so often without good cause. We’ve done a lot of business together. But _very_ fortunately for you I have no love for killing, so I will give you a choice, Your Royal Highness, between death and a gods’ oath.” 

The prince’s voice was high and ragged. “You cannot for—”

“Yes, I can, and I do. Choose to die, or swear by gods’ oath that for a year and a day you will obey every command given you by your father, by General Vanget, and by me, without protest or delay. Swear the oath and break it, and your blood will boil in your veins. Refuse to swear, and you die this day, this hour. None will avenge you, and your father alone will mourn you. Choose, now.”

He swore, of course, though he had to be coached in wording and gesture, and chimes rang, loud and crystal pure, resonating in every bone of Taren’s body. Kel inclined her head in the direction of the shrines.

“Lord Sakuyo bears personal witness to your oath, Prince Loup, and you are now bound by it. First command — report to General Vanget now, and learn to hold a polearm properly. You are dismissed.”

After a humming moment he staggered to his feet, looking round and finding no support before General Vanget crooked an arm.

“Come. We’ll start with basic staffwork.”

He went, feet dragging, amid a brittle silence, and King Lewis walked stiffly forward, flanked by Dorlinnes and others, and went to one knee for a moment, other Gallans following.

“Thank you for your mercy and grace to my son, my lady.”

As the Gallans stood Kel nodded.

“You are welcome, Your Majesty. I am truly sick of killing.” Abruptly her face hardened into her mask. “But Loup has had his last chance. It comes to me that more than one soul in and out of the Peaceful Realm would have welcomed his death, and neither I nor the gods will deny them a second time. He has not killed, but it is not only seventeen Tortallans or Biron and his brothers who have died on his account. Look to it. And now you must excuse me.”

Kel left at a brisk pace, Dom following, to stand before the Black God’s shrine, and after an uneasy moment training resumed. King Lewis’s gaze followed her before swinging round and settling on King Jonathan.

“What did that mean?”

“What Keladry said, Lewis, no more nor less. If you truly don’t know, I’d look to an overzealous du Nord servant in your wife’s household who has found murder an expedient means of ensuring silence.”

“From Kel’s manner, I’d guess one victim at least was a girl, no doubt for the usual reason.” Queen Thayet’s face and voice were also hard. “I strongly suggest you find the graves, and honour them as is right.”

There was another humming moment before King Lewis offered Jonathan and Thayet a shallow bow.

“I begin to understand. My lords, with me. Including you lot. Questions _will_ be answered.”

He pointed to Prince Loup’s three pals, who found themselves shepherded after him by Dorlinnes and every other Gallan of the embassy as he walked stiffly away towards the barbican. Once they had passed through and were gone, breaths blew out all around, and after a moment Ragnar’s wondering voice broke the silence.

“How stupid can someone be and still remember to breathe?”

“Very.” Queen Thayet’s voice was bone dry. “But not for long around Kel. You know, Jon, I don’t believe we appreciate Roald as we should. Let’s get some breakfast and remedy that.”

The royals went, and Taren reflected, once again, that there were worse childhoods than his own had been, for all its burdens. Loup had Joren’s self-regarding arrogance and pride of blood, but nothing at all to back it up, and what must have been monumental indulgence by his mother had wrought damage as surely as cruelty or neglect. He found Ragnar looking at him, one shaggy eyebrow raised.

“You were far away. A copper for them?”

“Some parents have a lot to answer for, and while I can’t say I feel much better about my own I believe I have gained some perspective.”

“Ah. That one. It doesn’t go away.” Ragnar shrugged massively. “My father got himself killed believing Maggur when he already knew better. While Maggur lived I thought only to avenge him, and with a little help from Kel I managed it. But I am not sure I have altogether forgiven him, though I know he felt he had no choice.”

“Huh. Mine neglected me entirely, stupidly got his fief into a great muddle, and ran away to a hermitage, leaving me to sort it out. With a lot of help from Kel and a little from Lord Mithros I have begun to forgive the neglect, but the stupidity and cowardice yet rankle.”

“A hermitage? That seems … useless.”

“So Lord Mithros thought. But if I drag him out, what would he do?”

“Were you not saying Kel needs a shrine keeper, for that strange building you want at the girls’ graves?”

Taren stared. “Serving Kel by keeping a wayhouse? He’d burst at the very idea!”

“It would solve the problem, either way.”

Then he and Ragnar were laughing helplessly, almost crying with it, and sobered only with difficulty to find a bemused Kel offering them much needed handkerchieves, Dom and Jump grinning beside her.

“I’m glad someone’s enjoying the morning.”

“Thank you.” Taren mopped his eyes and blew his nose. “Ragnar suggested my father might find more useful employment than solitary hermiting in keeping the _kanji_ -house for you.”

The look on Kel’s face almost undid the handkerchief’s good work, and her voice was even drier than Queen Thayet’s had been.

“He would need greatly to improve his comportment.”

With considerable effort Taren kept a straight face. “Indeed. I shall be talking to him about that, among other things. But at least he can serve as a fall-back position if Dabeyoun doesn’t come through.”

This time Kel hooted. “Thank you, Tar. I shall be glad to think of Lord Burchard as second string to a hyena’s pick, and I needed a laugh.”

“Always happy to oblige. Did a god speak to you?”

“No.” She sighed. “But I think one at least of those dead of Loup’s is sundered. Hidden murder is a prime cause.”

“With a concomitant desire of revenge?”

“Oh yes. I should tell King Lewis he’ll need a priest of the Black God, because I’m bothered if I’m going back to Galla any time soon.”

“Perhaps a hound would help. You always say they need exercise.”

“So I do, and that’s a thought.” Kel frowned. “I’m not sure if naming the guilty to mortal justicers rather than hunting them is allowed. I must ask. But just now I want breakfast, and plenty of it. Princes and idiots are both hard work, and the combination’s left me famished.”

 

* * * * *

 

The journey to Rathhausak was more than a little odd but, despite a certain apprehension about what lay at its end, never less than interesting and entertaining. Besides two kings, one royal family, a very subdued prince (taken firmly in hand by General Vanget), and three clanchiefs — four after Dragonstown — all with guards and retinues, there were Kel’s guests, former Rathhausakers, immortals including Quenuresh, Lord Jadewing, and the Stone Tree Nation, and many others. For Captain Uinse, Sergeant Jacut, Mistress Fanche, and Master Saefas to be away together, in Kel’s and Dom’s absence, was not welcome, but in this she would not deny them, and all had competent deputies while spellmirrors and darkings could provide immediate recourse if needed. King Jonathan cheerfully gave permission for serving survivors of the rescue mission to come, as long as they were technically on leave when in Scanra, and Sergeant Connac decided he’d see the end of the story, as he had its beginning. Others came as witnesses for families and trades. Kel grumbled about unscheduled holidays and bunking off, but conceded she’d rather folk had accurate reports of events.

Those without their own were loaned horses from Kel’s burgeoning stables, so they made good time — one day to Dragonstown, where Lord Jadewing paid a visit to shops selling carved dragons, buildings rippling aside as he peered through windows, and pronounced himself satisfied with standards of accuracy but left the carvers quivering all the same ; another to Pakkai Junction, via a late lunch at Smiskir Corner. Innkeeps had been warned and food sent ahead, so the whole excursion was in effect a mobile party at Kel’s considerable expense ; yet on the second day promised to pay for itself, when a little short of Smiskir Corner Masterminers Petrin and Kuriaju, after staring at a crag to the south, left the road together, promising to catch everyone up. They did so as lunch was ending, and went straight to Kel.

“Protector, the rock layers in that crag are exactly the same as those at Tirrsmont, and if there is not the same silver ore somewhere below I shall be surprised.”

“Well now, Kuriaju, that’s interesting. You agree, Petrin?”

“Oh yes, Lady Kel. The ore seam and its overload plunge at Tirrsmont, but it looks like they come up again around here.” He shrugged. “Coal does that too, as if something folded the layers, like ruckling a blanket.”

“Alright, though what might bend stone on that scale I don’t want to know. Organise some prospecting but get yourselves food now — we need to push on.” She was sitting with the kings and clanchiefs, and turned to her liegelord. “So, sire, if they’re right, would I owe you tax on silver mined in the Scanran part of New Hope?”

King Jonathan rested head on hands as his wife and children smiled.

“You do ask them, Keladry. But much as I would love to say yes, no, you wouldn’t. Otherwise the Council of Ten could claim you owed them on silver from the Tortallan half that I already tax. Mine it in Tortall, and the tax goes to Corus. Mine it here, and pay the tax to Hamrkeng.”

“Except there isn’t one, I don’t think. Jorvik?”

“Quite right, Kel. The fixed tithe covers central administration and the army, but if you find silver, it’s yours as much as coal or timber or the game in your woods. In need we do look first to wealthier clanchiefs, but it’s a matter of persuasion, not law.”

King Jonathan sighed. “Honesty is so painfully the best policy.”

Kel grinned. “Cheer up, sire, because if there is silver there I’ll pay a voluntary tax to Hamrkeng, at the Tortallan rate.” Her gaze swung to Jorvik. “Which is twenty-five percent of profit. And assuming it’s as productive as Tirrsmont, we can have some interesting conversations about what you’ll do with the windfall while it lasts.”

“We shall look forward to it, Kel.” Ragnar was keeping a straight face with difficulty. “What did you have in mind? Slavery?”

“Top of the list, certainly. With Galla pushing as well we can strangle and stamp it out of the north as a whole. But what Tortall calls public works also — give Hamrkeng proper plumbing and sewerage, for starters. And pave the streets so we don’t all have to slog through that ghastly mud whenever it isn’t winter and rains.”

“You have my voice already, Kel, and I’d be surprised if anyone objects.” Jorvik shook his head. “Two of Hléoburh travel this way to watch you melt Castle Rathhausak, look at a crag that for all I could tell you is exactly like every other blessed crag, and less than one lunch later we’re civilising Hamrkeng with sewers. Does any of that seem oddly familiar, King Lewis?”

The conversation continued into the evening at Pakkai Junction, but other matters intruded. Three more of the Council of Ten were waiting there, and a group of spidrens led by Vendurant, who laired not far north and had at Kel’s request brought in boar and deer that were already roasting. Kel introduced them, and spent a while talking to Vendurant, whom she didn’t often see, before Quenuresh and Aldoven took over for a spidren colloquy, and she turned attention to Clanchiefs for a Scanran one. Taren noticed Erde of Hannalof watching with an odd look as she told some tale in fast Scanran that had her fellows laughing, and recognised one of those moments when reality suddenly hit home ; curious, he went across, sympathised, and asked what had triggered it.

“I don’t really know, my lord. I knew they were coming to meet us, and it’s logical enough, but … she’s so _smooth_ with it all.”

“Spidrens in spidren, and Scanrans in Scanran, and never a blink?”

“Yes. I came here, you know, because it was a better opportunity than I had at Hannalof, and Svein bent my father’s ear, so he wanted it. And at first I was wondering what in Tortall I’d let myself in for, and not at all sure I could cope. But now I’m proud to be a part of this … whatever it is. To serve her.”

“She’s won your loyalty, Erde, and that I understand well. So do many. But I am intrigued as to why spidrens and Scanrans brought it home.”

Taren wasn’t sure Erde understood himself but thought Hannalof was a martial as well as politically-minded fief, and Erde had recognised the true scale of the power Kel wielded. Their talk was interrupted when a dozen hounds, quite coincidentally, as all blandly assured Kel, loped in from the woods just as the first boar and deer were ready to be carved. Wuodan and Frige were among them, with Cerus, and Kel considered them with raised eyebrows.

“Mmmm. Tell me, Wuodan, are you familiar with the phrase _singing for your supper_?”

_I have heard it, Protector._

“Good. Why don’t you and Frige join us at what is passing as high table? I have a … procedural question for you.”

Kel let the hounds have meatier longbones and joints they could gnaw, rather than the succulent slices mortals received, and to Neal’s vast amusement insisted they eat some vegetables as well.

“Gatecrash mortal meals, Wuodan, and eat a mortal diet. But chew on this, too. I know there are clear rules for when you’re Hunting and when you’re not, but you smell guilt regardless, so when you’re _not_ are you allowed to tell a mortal in authority that someone reeks of guilt?”

Wuodan and Frige both stared at her.

_What an interesting question, Protector. No rule covers such a circumstance, because it would not usually arise. What have you in mind?_

“Somewhere in Galla is an unmarked grave or three I have charged King Lewis to find and honour. The murderer is unknown, but likely to be among a small group. I was wondering if you might be introduced, to identify any guilty and alert a priest of the Black God to the presence of any sundered souls — unless you can open the way for them yourself?”

_You wish us to deputise for Dabeyoun while also … pointing the guilty for mortal law to deal with rather than enacting our own justice?_

Taren couldn’t remember Wuodan ever hesitating, and appreciated the pure dogginess of his image, the hunt pointing the guilty as a water spaniel did marshfowl. Kel simply nodded.

“I do, Wuodan, if you will and it’s allowed. It’s more deputising for me than for Dabeyoun, though. The Black God’s gift gives me an itch about such things, I’m finding, and its range is far greater than I’d expected. Merely talking to someone who benefited from these Gallan killings was enough to make me aware of them, which is why I think there’s at least one sundered spirit, but I really can’t go traipsing off to Galla again.”

King Lewis muttered something Gallan that Taren would bet amounted to sincere relief, and Wuodan took a reflective bite of the haunch in front of him, but one advantage of mind-speech was that you could talk with your mouth full.

_It is another of your pleasingly direct solutions, Protector, so I will ask Mithros, and if he has no objection I dare say Frige and I would enjoy a longer run. Roasted does make a pleasant alternative to raw, sometimes._

“Good. Thank you.” She turned to King Lewis. “Your Majesty, when you are ready to proceed, which I trust will be sooner than later, please offer an informative prayer at a shrine to Lord Weiryn, and ask him nicely to pass the message on. He knows the hounds need more exercise than they’re getting, so I expect he’ll oblige.” Her eyes rested on a happily chewing Cerus. “Some more than others, but they’ve all realised wayhouses are a handy source of food.”

_You already have us signed up to chase the Chaos-tainted from here to the Icefalls, Protector. When we wind up lean and footsore, be sure we will descend on the Citadel to recuperate._

“And welcome, Wuodan, should such a point be reached.”

“I shall do so, Countess.” King Lewis’s eyebrows were well on course for his receding hairline, but his gaze was sharp. “Yet another means of certain justice. How many more do you have?”

“It’s just doing what’s possible, Your Majesty, and finding ways for mortals and immortals and the Hunt to co-operate.”

Wuodan cracked a bone. _The Protector has a way of asking us to do what we are happy to do, Lewis of Barbonne. This business of confining gods for a century is all very well, but the Hunt cannot be idle for so long. Guarding the road is good, but pointing those who would deserve Hunting will be more deeply satisfying, I believe._

“So you’re scratching Keladry’s itch, and she’s scratching yours. Literally.” King Jonathan grinned, and Wuodan gave him a look. “Or not. The griffins like sitting in court, too, and they do make trials much smoother and quicker. You realise, Lewis, that lawyers can’t lie any more than defendants or witnesses?”

“Truly? That would be worth seeing. I had hoped to speak to the Godborn about griffins, but …”

“Mmm.” Kel’s look was cool. Daine and Numair were with them, but had persistently avoided Gallan company. “Snowsdale was even worse for her than I’d realised, Your Majesty, so I’m afraid that’s not on. Nor is asking Lord Weiryn or the Green Lady, as she was murdered there when mortal, and they were both less than happy with how Snowsdale treated their orphaned daughter.” She shrugged as King Lewis winced. “Mortals will be mortals, and Daine admits she was lost in magic and grief, thinking more like one of the People than a two-legger, but still. You might send someone to tell them the truth and swear it by gods’ oath, by way of pointing out what they cost themselves as well as you. You might also try being nice to Quenuresh, who can farspeak and talk to griffins. Or with justice at stake, Lord Mithros might oblige if you asked _very_ nicely. If one does turn up one day, offer it fresh fish. Oh, and while none can speak to mortals without an interpreter, some read Old Thak.”

King Lewis hadn’t blinked, but did rest his chin on his hands. “You are an education, lady, and all kindness.”

“I try, Your Majesty.” Suddenly Kel grinned. “And you shouldn’t be repining, you know. If I was still cross with you I’d assign Junior to Gallan griffin liaison duties.”

King Lewis stared but King Jonathan and Queen Thayet, as well as Jorvik and Ragnar, snorted laughter.

“Now that’s a real threat, Lewis, believe me.” King Jonathan frowned slightly. “Though he’s been very … I almost want to say subdued, except that’s hardly his style. I don’t believe I’ve seen him swoop on anyone since I came north.”

“No.” Kel had turned, staring out at the nearest woodeaves, and sounded abstracted. “He nipped through the dragon gateway to Aussonne, at considerable risk, and managed to get himself scolded by Diamondflame. Ask Tobe — he saw it. But please excuse me a minute.”

She rose, still looking out, and Dom laid a hand on her arm.

“Love?”

“Sundered. From those slavers, I expect.”

Her voice was distant, and after a second Dom spoke in an undertone all could still hear.

“We got Haven’s adults back just here, killing the slavers who had them, and their guards. Nearly two hundred, all told. Bodies went to the woods, of necessity. When the wayhouse was built we had bones gathered and burned, but the People had already taken many of them.”

He broke off as Kel started towards the eaves, rising to follow her with one hand keeping anyone else from following while the other summoned four of the Clanchief’s Guard and signalled fighting ogres to stay put. King Jonathan’s tone was speculative.

“The slavers were Scanrans so a proper Clanchief’s Guard won’t spook them? But ogres or other mortals gawking would?”

To the surprise of some but not Taren it was Tobe, hitherto quiet beside his Ma and Da, who answered.

“Most were Scanrans, sire, but slavers are always a mixed bag. Two or three were Carthaki, and at least one Bazhir. But I think you have Da’s reasons right.”

“Thank you, Tobe. I’d half-forgotten you were with them. Are you alright?”

Tobe glanced up with a quick smile. “I’m good, sire. I don’t mourn slavers, even sundered ones. But I was thinking, those Carthakis came a long and dirty way to die far from home. And I don’t know what rites they’d have wanted to guide them to the Black God.”

“Not so different from ours, Tobe. But you’re right about a long and dirty …”

His voice trailed off because Kel had reached the eaves, and after a moment raised her command voice with a timbre to it that Taren had never heard, nor from their looks anyone else, even Tobe.

“You mortal spirits, who in life helped to steal the children of Haven, and whom I slew or ordered slain here that its adults might live free, if you would pass to the Peaceful Realm, unshriven and unforgiven yet without my curse, come to me now. You will have no second chance.”

Taren’s eyes strained into the darkness beyond the firelight, and he felt Var’s hand find his own, squeezing, but there was nothing for mortal eyes to see. Wuodan and Frige, though, were standing taut, eyes flickering flame, and so were other hounds.

 _I cannot share my vision, mortals, but the dead come to her. Two score at least. More._ Satisfaction flooded Frige’s mindvoice. _And she sees how to open the way for them using the Black God’s own power, granted with his gift, and does not drain herself._

 _Why do so for enemies, however sundered?_ Wuodan sounded pleased too. _She has always learned fast, and the Staff of Knowledge liked her touch. Much as the Timeway did._

Taren still saw nothing distinct but was aware of something, a disturbance of vision that flared and faded and was gone. He did see Kel turn to Dom, and rest for a moment in her husband’s arms.

_And it is done. She will sleep now, and be awake early to press on, so I suggest you sleep also, mortals._

Wuodan was right that Kel and Dom did not return, and Tobe and Irnai took his advice, but adults lingered, King Lewis and newcome Clanchiefs sizing one another up until Queen Thayet took advantage of Kel’s absence to coax from Neal, Mistress Fanche, and Master Saefas their versions of what had happened here three years ago. Everyone knew Kel’s report, which had circulated as far as Galla, but to hear the tale told more fully and first-hand was a fascination, and Taren, Sam, and Var eventually went to bed with heads spinning at the thought of all Kel’s tiny command and refugees had in sober fact done.

The same thoughts were in Taren’s mind next morning as they rode on. The Smiskir Ford was a hundred yards above its confluence with the Pakkai, a shelf of scoured rock, and even in high summer the water was deep and cold enough to make him draw his feet up and his horse snort. Thinking of what Kel had said when they rode to find the abducted girls, he saw her making the crossing on foot, leading horses laden with children, probably many times over with so few adults and so many beasts of burden ; but once they entered the forbidding Pakkai valley, narrow, densely wooded, and steeply enclosed, with the river running fast and cold hard by the southern cliffs, he found himself thinking of the outward journey — twenty-nine adults, barely half trained warriors, and Tobe grimly pursuing one-hundred-and-seventy soldiers and two hundred children. He recalled Svein saying his men had thought the expedition unauthorised, and knew it must be true, that Kel had gone after her people with only what support she could personally command or cajole — yet her wholly inadequate force had carved through everything in its way, as the swift Pakkai had carved out this valley but a great deal faster. And the valley became no more welcoming even when sunlight edged down cliffs and lit woods : this was untamed land, the dirt road often overgrown, testifying to the lack of traffic, and the woods dense, the haunt of bears and bobcats, elk and boar. Curious, Taren moved up to fall in beside Jorvik and Ragnar.

“I was wondering why Clan Rathhausak, while it existed, did so little with any of this land.”

Jorvik shrugged. “The valley widens further on, and there is farmland round the village. They needed no more, and preferred to hunt forests.”

“And had no wish to be welcoming.” Ragnar’s smile was mirthless. “Maggur was a great departure for them, in every sense. His longfathers kept themselves to themselves unless they had pressing reason, and wanted no visitors if they could help it. The Pakkai suited them well.”

“Huh. So when did they build Castle Rathhausak, and what was it needed to keep out?”

“Tortallans.” Jorvik’s smile was more genuine. “And other Scanrans, of course. The present castle was built a century or so back, while Jasson was eating up Barzun and elsewhere, because they thought, rightly, that when he’d eaten south to the sea he’d look north, and also, wrongly but understandably, that the Vassa wouldn’t stop him. But Scanra was having its own upheavals, as it usually is, and there was more than one clanchief who looked at the wealth of game here and sighed.”

“The village has a watermill too. Or did. Our shamans cannot cut millstones, as some mages can, so even now mills are far rarer here than in Tortall. With so little grain grown, they represent much effort and cost for something essentially needless.”

Taren quirked an eyebrow. “How so, Ragnar? Would you not have bread?”

“Surely, but mortar and pestle will make flour for one family’s bread.”

“Huh. So why did Clan Rathhausak have a mill?”

“Good question. Does it matter?”

“Probably not, Jorvik. But it sounds an oddity, and it occurs to me they might have found a mage who could spellcut millstones, in which case Maggur collecting Blayce might not have been quite such a departure as Ragnar suggested. I was thinking about him growing up here, and that I’d have been desperate to get out too.”

“Interesting,” Jorvik frowned. “But Maggur Reidarsson seized the Bloody Throne well before we heard of the Gallan sorcerer who would make us weapons to beat Tortall.”

“Maggur knew before us, Jorvik, and who is to say how long before?”

“True, Ragnar. And I would not doubt Maggur knew of Blayce, but I doubt he had his services for long before we saw the fruit of them.”

Taren shrugged. “I can’t speak to any of that. I just wondered if a young Maggur saw millstones his father was proud of, that had some story attached, and thought _Out in the world my longfathers found a man who could make grinding stones for corn, so I could find one to make grinding stones for men._ And, it turned out, women and children.”

Both Scanrans stared at him.

“That is a fearsome thought, Taren.” Jorvik hunched slightly. “And surely that is what he found, when he began to travel.”

When they stopped for a cold lunch, provided by the innkeeps at Pakkai Junction, Zerhalm and other former Rathhausakers were able to confirm the millstones had been spellcut, as their tale had it by a Barzuni mage who had fled north when Jasson attacked south. Both Kel and King Jonathan were listening, and she nodded sadly.

“That sounds right. War begets war, almost always, and historians only scratch the surface. They connect the Barzuni war to the revolt there eight years later, but not to Maggur. Why should they? But there it is, from the honest advantage of one displaced mage to the vile advantage of another, two generations down the line. It’s the Timeway’s version of a pebble starting an avalanche.”

It was also, Taren thought as they rode on, exactly what Kel was trying to prevent, breaking the cycle of Scanran wars Jasson had left as a legacy, however Tortallans rarely saw it that way, and something to which his own interest in memorials spoke. They were not only to honour the dead, but also to warn the living of war’s costs and frequency, and throughout the afternoon he pondered the connection with stormwings’ purpose, reaching no conclusion but gaining clarity, and filing away ideas for the putative memorials at Mindelan and in Corus.

When the twenty-nine had come this way they had been limited by the speed and endurance of warhorses bearing fully armoured knights, and it had taken two days to reach village and castle. For all its size the present party was travelling lighter and making better time, but there was a delay in late afternoon when they passed a hollow by some bluffs and Kel released more sundered to the Peaceful Realm. It had once been Stenmun’s camp, Taren gathered from Tobe, and he had not delayed to bury men lost overnight. Some miles further on they halted, filling a clearing with cheerful fires, and thankful the weather stayed fair as they spread bedrolls. Kel spent time with former Rathhausakers, and at dawn sent ten ogres and as many Guards to scout the village, more on principle than in expectation.

Not long after they set off next day there were more sundered to release, at the site of an ambush where Stenmun had again left dead unburied. It was not, Kel observed drily to a fascinated audience as they rode on, just the lack of graves, for to die was to open a way to the Peaceful Realm, but a combination of sudden death and guilty life that made some souls shun that way, with the absence of any rite to force transition. And no, she had not learned from her own death but from the Black God’s gift, which let her know answers to questions about sundering that struck her — much as the Staff of Knowledge had, but with a far narrower remit. No-one had any reply, and conversation was scant for a while.

In mid-morning the valley’s profile began to change, southern cliffs dwindling and northern slopes retreating to give the Pakkai more space, of which it took advantage. Cleaving to the northern side, the road began to rise and fall, crossing shallow vales with small creeks feeding the Pakkai, and low ridges. The forest remained thick, and Taren had no real sense of how the land lay more widely, but the sun told him they had swung north-west, and a while after he’d begun wondering about lunch they topped a slight rise to see Rathhausak village. It sat in a wide vale bisected by a larger creek, a huddle of houses and barns with the mill by the Pakkai, amid fields run to seed and carpeted with wild flowers ; beyond the further rise the curtain wall and soot-blackened keep of the castle loomed by a sheer cliff, an ugly and threatening silhouette that went with the feel of desertion. Ogres and Scanrans were waiting by the shallow ford, where the village road began.

“No-one here, Lady Kel,” Wulf reported. “A few have been — a couple of houses have had fires lit and beds used not so long ago — but no-one’s stayed. Clanless and deserters, I’d guess, and I’m not surprised they moved on.” He moved his shoulders uneasily. “On my own I’d not stay here while my legs worked.”

“Thank you, Wulf. Guard the ford, please — no mortal to cross without my permission.” Kel’s voice went to command mode. “My lord, Your Majesties, everyone, those who once lived here and left at very short notice need time to check their property, so we’ll bivouac in the meadow for now. Please stay on this side of the creek until I say otherwise. Get yourselves sorted and assemble outside the village in half-a-mark and I’ll explain what will be happening.”

Zerhalm and Irnai led former villagers among the houses, while other mortals set about picketing horses and eating a welcome lunch, cold cuts of last evening’s game and bread that was drying but still tasty. Lord Jadewing and other dragons settled in the meadow, looking curiously around, and there was a buzz of conversation, as much, Taren thought, to hold off the oppressive feel as for anything that was said. Once he was sure Vesker and his men were set, and the bivouac was settled to the satisfaction of royal escorts and clanchiefs’ Guards, he and Sam joined Var, who was sketching the contrast of wildflowers and blackened silhouette, to wait for Kel.

She came from the village with Zerhalm, Irnai, and a small group of Rathhausakers, all with set faces, and waved everyone to gather round. Dragons and taller immortals peered over heads, and despite the atmosphere Taren felt a sudden tweak of amusement at the sheer improbability of the gathering and its purpose.

“My lord, Your Majesties, Royal Highnesses, everyone, demolishing that castle is tomorrow’s business. Today, some of us have another task, because there are three kinds of bodies or what is left of them in there — those Blayce and Stenmun killed, to be recovered in all honour ; those we lost in the attack, and burned ere we departed, likewise ; and those left for stormwings, to be cremated without ceremony. Then I will deal with the sundered. These of Rathhausak come in hope of recovering lost kin. Numair, Lord Jadewing, I will need your powers, if you will. Sire, I believe you and yours should come, for the Tortallan dead. Clanchiefs of Scanra, besides those of Rathhausak and villages around the Scanran dead here were Kinslayer’s men, deserving no honour, but you are welcome in witness. King Lewis, Prince Loup, you have no obligation here” — Kel did not mention Blayce had been Gallan, any more than Taren had — “but may come if you will. Immortals and lords and ladies of Tortall likewise. All who were with me then are with me now. For the rest, a score of volunteers will be welcome for a grim task, but all others please stay here until we are done. If you lack occupation and are minded to help, the other Rathhausakers are setting about their houses to reclaim what they can and will, and to make them usable for all should the weather turn. Many hands make light work.”

Taren, Sam, and Var decided to go as volunteers rather than by noble right, and Kel gave them a look.

“Sure? It will not be fun.”

“We can hold a sack to receive bones, Kel, and will be proud to do so.”

Var’s voice was steady, and Taren felt a renewed surge of pride in the woman his little sister was fast becoming.

“Very well. It’s far enough that we’ll ride.”

Taren had a word with Vesker, who had already volunteered his men to clean and carry in the village, and shortly found himself splashing across the ford in Lord Jadewing’s wake. At the top of the rise the road ran straight for a mile or so, then bent north ; the rusting hulks of three killing devices lay close together along one stretch, making Taren swallow at their reality. Reaching the bend he realised it was forced by the Pakkai, which had carved itself a deep channel bounding the higher ground ; the castle, in full view beyond a once cleared zone overgrown with long grass and scrub, nestled between the cliff, protecting its north side, and the river, protecting its south. There was no moat or abatis, gates sagged drunkenly open, and Taren saw with a queasy twist that cages hung from the merlons of the curtain wall, what bones were left within catching the sunlight.

Those, as it turned out, were Kel’s first order of business, and once horses were safely picketed she turned to Lord Jadewing.

“My lord, it was for this that I asked you to come. Might you reach us down those ghastly cages, as carefully as may be?”

_Of course, Protector. The bones are those of mortals Stenmun killed to coerce their kin?_

“They are, my lord.”

_It was abomination. I honour them._

What would for mortals have been a slow and awkward business was for Lord Jadewing barely a moment’s work. The curtain wall might be a good forty feet, but the great dragon merely sat up on his haunches, as a cat might, and carefully grasping each cage in turn with one forepaw snapped the suspending chain with the other. All broke cleanly, and each cage was set down gently by Kel and Dom, anxious Rathhausakers behind them. An ogre forced the rusted lock to open the door of the first, and after a silent moment Kel bowed to the bones within, knelt, and laid a hand on a longbone. After a few seconds she rose, turning to seek a face she knew, and spoke a name. An elderly couple came forward, faces graven with grief, to claim their son, and watched Sergeant Jacut, face an austere mask, reverently pick up bones to place in a clean cotton sack Captain Uinse held. Looking round, heart aching, Taren saw Sergeant Connac giving another sack to Master Saefas and Mistress Fanche, and went with Sam to collect one himself. Theirs was the fifth cage, its occupant Zerhalm’s wife, and the ache in his heart grew as he bowed and Var curtsied deeply, and they began to lift longbones, pelvis, ribs, collarbones, and skull, for the sack Sam held, eyes wet ; the small bones of hands, wrist, and feet were missing, fallen to earth long ago. Zerhalm took the sack silently, cradling it as he walked away, and Taren took a deep breath, seeing Sergeant Connac also had panniers for sacks to be returned to Haven for full rites, and braced himself to enter the castle.

Four ogres wrenched the sagging leaves of the gate free, weakened hinges loose in the stone, and carried them aside to let Kel walk through, face a mask. By unspoken consent everyone waited for those of the twenty-nine present to follow her before falling in behind, Taren finding Var’s hand in his own as they entered the gloom of the barbican. The portcullis was raised, as Kel had left it, massive chains rusted in place, and the heavy bar that once locked the gates lay to one side, streaked with colourful lichens. Before him the gaunt and blackened frame of the burnt-out keep reared skyward, and nothing seemed to have fared better — hall, stableblock, and barracks were gutted and roofless, standing walls stained and speckled. Even a privy block had burned, one wall falling to show the characteristic layout.

“Huh. A more thorough job of arson than reported.”

General Vanget spoke as much to himself as anyone, but Kel nodded without turning.

“Sparks did a better job than I knew, Vanget. Or someone helped. His Nibs, maybe. But bones before buildings.”

And there were bones enough. On the nearer side of the courtyard, away from the keep, a small pile of scorched and thinned bone-shards, some clearly animal, marked the Tortallan pyre. All around, white and whole, a dense scatter of bones with odds of rusting armour represented Stenmun’s command, some showing deep gouges from weapons that slew them or stormwing claws, but none marked by animal teeth ; the People had known better than to enter here, however tempting the bait. Winds swirled down by keep and curtain wall had piled small bones, bootsoles, and fragments of clothing into corners. Taren heard breaths sucked in as those entering behind him saw the scene.

“Numair, the honoured dead first. Please gather all _burnt_ bone, human, horse, and dog, with any associated dust, into the chest Uinse and Jacut bear.”

There was no doubt in Kel’s voice that it was possible, and though Numair’s eyebrows quirked he didn’t demur ; there was a brief, charged wait, however, before sparkling black magic spilled from his hands to sweep gently across the flagstones, gathering dust and shards. When the pile had been as gently, reverently, tipped into the chest Kel nodded thanks and walked across to Uinse and Jacut, resting a hand on the rim.

“High One, Lord of the Peaceful Realm, the souls of Gilead Lofts, Morun Locksman, Petter Miller, Cladir Sweep, Garto Freeman, Jorvik Rider, Jerol Fulcher, and Ardis Lofren have long been in your care. I ask that they know their mortal remains are honoured, and will be interred at Haven, and that if it pleases you they be allowed to see what passes here this day and tomorrow. Lord Arawn, I ask as much for the soul of Windtreader, whom his rider Owen knew as Happy and yet grieves. Dog gods, I do not know your names, but I ask as much again for the souls of Shepherd, a boarhound of Haven, and the three nameless dogs of mixed breed who died here with him. All are missed and remembered with love, gratitude, and sorrow. So mote it be”

Kel made the gods’ circle, others echoing her, and chimes sounded as wind soughed through trees, carrying against its silence a distant whinny and barking. Taren felt reverence tighten, as Var’s hand did, and he could see a sheen on Kel’s cheek, but she only nodded gravely.

“Thank you, High Ones. Now then …”

Kel took Dom’s hand a moment, as if for solace, but walked forward alone, among tangled Scanran bones. What she was after Taren had no idea, though as she took slow strides, eyes lingering on skulls, he began to suspect — a notion confirmed when she stooped to lift one with a circle of bone missing above the eye sockets, cradled it in her hands a minute, and turned to toss it to Dom.

“Stenmun.”

Her second quarry took longer to find, but eventually she pushed aside a heap of longbones and lifted a second skull, staring with extreme distaste before tossing it to, of all people, Irnai, who caught it neatly.

“Blayce.”

Irnai wasn’t asking a question but Kel nodded. “Yes. I think he’ll hear you, Irnai, if you care to tell him anything. One to go.” She looked up to meet Barzha’s gaze from her perch on the curtain wall. “Into the keep, Your Majesty?”

“Of course, Protector. Where else?”

“Latrine block? It’s hardly beyond you.”

Kel ignored the stormwing cackles, crooking a finger. “With me, Moriaju, please, in case any lifting’s needed.”

Taren was distracted by the faint sound of Irnai hissing a curse at Blayce’s skull, asking that his soul feed the spirits of every flea, tick, mosquito, louse, horsefly, and gnat that ever lived, but kept his eyes on the arched doorway through which Kel and Moriaju had disappeared. Spilling daylight made it stand out sharply from the heavily sooted and fire-streaked stones that framed it, and there were echoing noises as fallen debris was shifted. Taren had seen houses that had burned, but never such a large stone structure, and a murmured exchange showed Var equally surprised by the completeness of the destruction.

“Floors and joists must all have gone up together, Tar. Flammables in Blayce’s workroom, maybe, or papers, and I’d bet they set the fire at many points. But I think Kel might be right that someone helped out, and we know the gods loathe necromancy.”

“Mmm. But it’s odd, Var. Why should they need Kel to start it, and make sure there was no-one to fight it, but then fan it themselves?”

Var shrugged. “They like our sweat. And Kel would say _parsimony_ , maybe. So much turned on rescuing the children and calling _blódbeallár_ on Maggur. If Lord Mithros had just blasted the place to smithereens how many innocents would have died? And who would know?”

“Points, Var. But gods, she walked a long way in their shadow before she won through to walk beside them.”

He fell silent, with others, as Kel and Moriaju emerged through the archway. Kel’s breeches had a long smear of soot, and Moriaju’s hands were filthy with it, but she bore a third skull, deeply pocked and gouged. Stormwing claws, Taren supposed. Dom and Irnai had already set the other skulls down beside one another, and Kel put it next to them.

“And Maggur makes three. Numair, I have a use for these, but everything else needs to go, now. Would you please pile all remaining bones in one big heap, and add anything flammable among the debris? There’s little if any timber left in the keep, but hall, barracks, and stables burned from the top down so I’d expect more cinders and charcoal. And the soot. Armour to one side.”

Numair sounded dubious. “Willingly, Kel, but so many dry bones’ll need more than that if you want them reduced to ash.”

“Not with dragonfire.” In other circumstances her expression might have been a grin as she turned to Kawit, standing just inside the archway. “You said a while back that to extend firespell training we’d need less restrictive conditions than safety allows at New Hope. If you and Lord Jadewing” — she gestured to the great dragon, peering over the curtain wall — “can provide secure containment, younger dragons can have at the pile Numair makes with all they have. I’d like nothing left.”

Kawit swished her tail. _You have an eye for possibilities, Protector. I will speak with Jadewing and the others while Numair works._

For Numair to sweep bones into a great heap was the work of a moment, and armour clattered into another pile at the same time, but the rest took longer and Alanna and King Jonathan pitched in to gather cinders and charcoal, streaming them through doorways to drop on the pile. It was, Taren thought, a measure of how very far Prince Loup still had to go that he stared with open amazement at a mage-king volunteering for menial work, and there were some crisply informative words from General Vanget, seconded by King Lewis, as well as a scornful glance from Princess Lianne, standing between her mother and brother. When it came to soot Lord Jadewing joined in, rippling ribbons of black, blue, purple, and green magic scouring stone clean and depositing enough soot over the bones that in the end there was a mostly smooth black cone below a very angular white tangle. Kel had been eyeing all the burned buildings with a pensive expression, but nodded her satisfaction.

“Thank you, all. Kawit, prepare to burn that out of existence, please, but wait for my signal to start.”

_Of course, Protector._

All mortals present fell back as apprentice and journeydragons entered, and Lord Jadewing vaulted the curtain wall, space expanding to provide a safe landing. He and Kawit set themselves on opposite sides of the pile, doing something magical Taren couldn’t see but other dragons clearly could, becoming intent.

_We are ready when you are, Protector._

Kel raised a hand in acknowledgement without turning. “Thank you, my lord. One moment, if you will.” Her voice shifted into that edged command mode and Scanran. “You mortal spirits, who in life served Stenmun Kinslayer to protect Blayce Younger’s necromancy and murders of children, I who slew you, or commanded your slayers, neither forgive nor forget your crimes. Yet you took orders, not giving them, and your bones will shortly be consumed by dragonfire — far more honour than any of you deserve, and enough to set you on your way to join your longfathers, if you will. Come to me as they burn, and I will send you to the Peaceful Realm, unforgiven and unshriven but without my curse. Refuse me now, and you will have no second chance.”

Taren could hear General Vanget translating in a harsh undertone for Prince Loup, and Prince Roald doing as much for his parents and sister, but his eyes were locked on Kel, half-turned so she could see both burned buildings and unlit pile, as he wondered anew at how much she considered and weighed.

“As you will, my lords and ladies.”

There was no signal Taren heard or saw, but streams of fire came from all the younger dragons, including Lady Skysong and Lady Icefall, pouring into the pile, instantly an incandescent white with a great gout of flame roaring straight up, obviously channelled through a narrow apex much as a hose channelled water. The glare was muted by what must be the older dragons’ containment, but still far too bright to stare at, and Kel was just as spellbinding as one arm made a sharp gesture and the other urged something forward. He could no more see sundered souls now than before, but something in the intensity or nature of the pyre-light etched the outlines of an archway where there was none, and the hint of swirling grey within flickered as ragged human silhouettes passed through, once, twice, then in countless crescendo. After a long moment it stilled and vanished, and turning his head on a neck that felt stiff Taren saw the fire was fading swiftly, and shortly nothing remained, not even ash. As if recognising what had happened, the sun slid out from a cloudbank and slanting afternoon light brightened everything, gleaming on newly clean walls and dust-free flagstones. Kel brushed hands together with satisfaction.

“Thank you all.”

_It is no trouble, Protector._

“You have our thanks also, Lord Jadewing, Lady Kawit, and all honoured _draca_.” Like every watching Scanran’s, Jorvik’s face was wondering as he turned. “As you do, once again, Clanchief Hléoburh. Those men lived and died badly, to our great shame, and yet they were but men who did as they were ordered. Your generosity is a grace.”

Kel’s face was still. “You and all Scanrans are welcome, Clanchief Hamrkeng, yet those souls were wise to depart as they did. I doubt my generosity will survive what must come next.” She took a deep breath. “Kawit, I told you how Lord Diamondflame lifted buried trees from the mud of the landslip, when we built the clifftop abatis.”

_You did, Protector._

“Could you do as much for buried bones? If possible, one skeleton at a time, though they will be tangled together, I expect. Stenmun wouldn’t have bothered with coffins.”

_I can try, Protector. Who else must be recovered here?_

“The children, Kawit. The Black God has had their souls safely since each killing device was slain, but their bodies must have been buried or dumped here, and I would not leave whatever yet remains in this place.”

_Ah. That is well, yet no easy task. Do you know where they lie, Protector?_

“I’m about to, Kawit.”

What followed as the sun westered and shadows lengthened was so intimate with horror and sorrow beyond words that long before it was done Taren felt as numb as he was silent. Kel found the bodies where one might expect given Stenmun’s rough carelessness, in a pit midden behind the hall, where a small kitchen-garden had intermittently been ransacked for earth to cover them. In one way it was easier than it might have been, for nothing had disturbed them, and Kawit said the patterns of association were clear ; but the bones were slight enough to be fragile, and could not be drawn through earth at any speed. As the problem became clear Lord Jadewing and older apprentices and journeydragons joined in, clustered around the midden, mortal mages interspersed to gather the proper contents of middens to one side, out of the way, return soil by the hundredweight to the kitchen garden, and gently relieve recovered bones of anything that clung to them. There were many more clean cotton sacks, each with a number inked on it, for volunteers to hold as heartwrenchingly small skulls and bones were placed within, and with each Kel rested a hand on them and after a moment spoke a name that Dom noted on a list of the numbers.

There were anomalies too — eight adult skeletons she identified as villagers, murdered but not gibbeted, to join the others, and two of Stenmun’s men slain by him in anger, consigned to the courtyard for belated incineration. Three infant skeletons, bare wisps of bone, were nameless stillbirths and an infanticide, that Kel said after a painful moment could rest with Blayce’s victims at Haven.

“The other children will not grudge them a place.”

With dusk drawing down it was at last done, but Kawit frowned into the deeply excavated midden.

_There is an adult skeleton in there also, Protector. It is older by perhaps two decades._

Kel’s face was drawn, eyes hooded, but after a moment she shrugged. “This should be no-one’s grave, Kawit. Let’s make it a clean sweep.”

When the stained bones reached the light she laid a hand on one, and with raised eyebrows turned to Jorvik, who like all the Clanchiefs had observed without moving, face ever more deeply graven.

“Does Hengist Reidarsson mean anything to you, Jorvik?”

He jerked in surprise. “It does, Kel, though I have not heard that name in many years. Maggur’s older brother, reported killed by a bear while hunting.”

“No wonder Maggur got on with Stenmun Kinslayer, though he once claimed he had betrayed none.” Taren winced at her dust-dry tone, and saw others do likewise. “What would you have me do with these? His soul is not sundered, and his bones no business of mine to honour or shame.”

“This was his place, and he would have wished to burn. We will see to it, if we may use some timber.”

“By all means. The gate-timbers will be deadwood enough. And add the bones of those slain guards, if you will.”

Hengist’s bones went into a final sack, and Ragnar took them.

“Are we done here for today, Kel?”

“Not quite, Ragnar. We have more spectators than you see.”

Her steps unusually revealing a weariness that must in every way be bone-deep, Kel returned to the courtyard, drinking deeply from a waterbottle before asking Rathhausakers to gather round and all others to stand away. Taren found himself by King Jonathan and Queen Thayet, her arm round Princess Lianne, as they heard Kel explain that she would ask sundered villagers if they chose release to the Peaceful Realm now, or would stay to witness the morrow ; and that while sundered souls were permitted speech, never having left the Mortal Realm, and she could, briefly, share the Black God’s gift of seeing souls, there was no assurance of speech or hearing. What was said in reply he could not hear, but it was clear that while some wanted no ghostly reunions, only surety of release, others accepted Kel’s kiss, the elderly couple and Zerhalm among them. Irnai didn’t, and King Jonathan murmured.

“She spares herself, then.”

“Or Lady Shakith spares Kel the need, sire.”

The king sighed. “Right you are, my lord. All gods, what a day this has been. And what a choice to have to make. I would not wish such a meeting with any of my dead, and I don’t suppose you would either.”

“Hardly. Do you think Kel wrong not to decide for them?”

“By no means. Only that I am for once very relieved to stand in my own shoes.”

Taren thought about the truth and ironies of that one, but watched Kel once more call the sundered and the stunned expressions on the faces of those she had gifted sight as they stared and moved towards that which he could not see. After a while Zerhalm and others moved slowly away to pass out through the barbican, Kel — and, he saw, Irnai — watching them and whatever accompanied them with both joy and sorrow before Kel turned back to consider something — someones — and after a moment raised her voice one last time.

“Lord of the Peaceful Realm, these come to you in all innocence, guiltless and weary after long vigil. Of your grace and mercy, might one of your servants guide them home?”

She started to gesture but her arm fell to her side as a doorway rimmed with silver that Taren could very definitely see blazed into existence, and two figures stepped through. It needed no memory of the images on the shrine at Haven to have him dropping to his knees, with the royals and every other mortal, even a gaping Prince Loup. Most immortals also dropped their heads, though dragons simply watched with interest as Kel bowed, wariness as well as weariness evident.

“My lady, Dabeyoun. Thank you. You are kind.”

“Hardly.” The Graveyard Hag gave a loud sniff. “It’s all work with you, dearie. You’ve had us hopping for three days now. And Da didn’t gift you so you could keep sundered here to watch one of your little shows.”

“I merely spread your burden as I can, my lady.”

The goddess gave a gap-toothed grin. “Good one. And it’s not as if we haven’t been waiting long enough. They have, too, so if they want to wait a little longer that’s their business. But Dabeyoun’s wondering why you’re keeping those three skulls, and so am I.”

“Do you have need or use for them, my lady?”

“Only as paperweights, dearie, if I needed paperweights.”

“Well, don’t fret, then, my lady. I want no more skullroads. I only thought they could, um, justly participate in the memorial.”

“Huh. Memorials, yet. Are you really going to melt all this into something else?”

“The basilisks and dragons are, my lady, while the living and sundered watch. Should she not know, you might tell Lady Shakith that I have the Staff of Light, to dedicate the Guild’s work when it is done.”

“You’re getting good at this, dearie. And if I’m not mistaken you’ll have more spectators than living and dead.”

“Really?” Taren couldn’t see Kel’s face but knew her eyebrows would be raised. “Well, all are welcome, of course, my lady. And I dare say such days of leisure are compensation for all the work I occasion you.”

The Hag cackled, and Dabeyoun yipped amusement.

“Fair doos, dearie, and even I can’t say you’re not being useful. I’ll be seeing you. Come on, then, you lot. And yes, you can stay if you want, Dabeyoun, but at this rate you’ll soon be as fat as half of those hounds.”

She waved her stick at something, but Taren noticed she let the sundered precede her into the grey, flickering as they passed, before she followed them and the doorway vanished. Dabeyoun shook himself vigorously, and trotted forward to stand before Kel, who knelt to greet him with a hand scratching his ruff.

_That was well handled, Protector. Lady One-Eye’s been eaten up with curiosity since you held back those skulls._

“Has she, Dabeyoun? She can hardly be jealous.”

The hyena pealed laughter that echoed from the cleaned walls and stood up the hairs on Taren’s neck.

 _Can’t she? But more than she are intrigued, Protector. And you are weary._ Without warning Dabeyoun leaned forward to lick Kel’s forehead. _It is only naming that has drained you, and that burden I can take._

“Yeuch!” Kel glared and mopped herself with a handkerchief, making Dabeyoun grin. “But thank you — that does feel easier. Still, I want food and my bedroll, and I daresay you could do with some food as well. Just not bones, eh? I’ve had enough of them for one day.”

Taren realised he was still kneeling, and rose as Kel did, rubbing her eyes and obviously marshalling thoughts.

“I’m sorry to desert you all, but even with Dabeyoun’s aid I really do need food and rest. And I’m sorry to call on ogre endurance, Moriaju, but there’s one, no, two things left. Will some of you help Jorvik and Ragnar with the pyre for Hengist Reidarsson, please — use the gate timbers, and I expect Kit or Scamp would be willing to light it — and then clear the underground levels. Who knows what might be down there? None of it will survive tomorrow, so anything worth saving needs to come up and out. I’m thinking of preserved food, mostly, but also metal, cloth, pottery. Waste not, want not. If there’s anything you’re uncertain about put it to one side. I’ll send Agrane and others who know the layout up to guide and assist. Everyone else, as you will, so long as you’re not in the way of anyone working. We’ll start again at dawn. And I am _out_ of here. Dom?”

They went together, Dabeyoun, Tobe, and Irnai behind them, and Taren looked round to meet a king’s wry gaze.

“Do you have any idea how nice it is _not_ to be in charge of anything?” Jonathan stretched an arm around Thayet’s shoulders. “Nothing within fifty or sixty miles is our responsibility, love. Let’s go eat, and drink a little more than would usually be wise.”

 

❦

 

Many shared the king’s instinct and the evening was mellow, at once exalted with wonders and emotionally exhausted, but while sharply aware of those who grieved not itself grieving — the deaths were long done, souls at peace or soon to be so, and Rathhausakers accompanying sundered conspicuously absent, seeking privacy. Yet the evidence of the children’s fates, the sheer number of small skeletons resting in sacks, was a horror, and drew from King Jonathan and General Vanget an account of the vision of Blayce at work the elemental of the Chamber had repeatedly sent Kel, and they had once been shown in light that sprang from Irnai’s hands — the Nothing Man adding one more little corpse to his havoc as a killing device woke to struggle upright.

“I had a nightmare or two after that, and what Kel endured Lord Gainel alone knows.”

King Lewis nodded, face softened by firelight needed more for comfort than warmth.

“For all the descriptions and the drawing my ambassador sent from Corus, seeing those things was a shock. Will Lady Keladry do anything with them?”

Riding back, they had stopped in the dusk to examine the rusting hulks, two with neat arrowholes punched in their domes, one with a more ragged rent from the spike of a battleaxe. Taren, with Var and Sam, had contemplated steel blades forming a travesty of hands and projecting from limb joints, cogs and pulleys wound with good wire, and welded plates of chest, domes, and jaws, thinking of how that metalwork had been done, at what kind of cost, and wishing Genlith’s spirit every torment Irnai wished on Blayce’s. When King Jonathan shrugged at King Lewis’s question, and no-one had any reply, he sat forward.

“I could offer to melt down the metal, sire, to return to New Hope as ingots, or as Kel will. What happened to others, do you know?”

“It varies, my lord. When they all collapsed at the City of the Gods blades and wire were scavenged, I think, and domes melted to destroy the runes Blayce used. But quite a few are probably rusting where they fell, like these. Would you gather all?”

“I would not be unwilling, sire, that as little as may be of Genlith’s treason remains.” Taren grimaced. “So much evil effort, and such complexity, yet such crudity too.”

“Huh. Lord Wyldon told me Keladry said something like that not long after her return — that for all they could kill the unprepared swiftly and in numbers, their effect was more terror than any true threat as warriors. That she and Mistress Fanche were able to destroy two of those three in as many minutes points the same way. A bit like _berserkir_ , I suppose — if you stay calm you can beat them. It’s panic that’s fatal.”

“What do I know of combat, sire? But that makes sense to me.”

“And me, Tar.” Var shrugged slightly. “Joren wasn’t so different. The fear was worse than the blows themselves.”

“Oh yes. Being hunted was worse than being caught.” Taren rolled his neck against the memory, and saw Princess Lianne frowning. “If devices are melted, should the giants’ bones be removed and interred, somehow, or cremated in the furnace?”

 _Giants do not bury or burn their dead, Taren, nor long remember them for all others can tell._ Kawit lay at the edge of the firelight. _Your thought does you honour, but you need not be concerned on their behalf._

“You could stack them round Joren’s effigy, Tar.” Var gave an edgy grin as he stared at her, unwillingly amused at the thought. “They’re too big for useful paperweights.” There were snorts. “I do wonder _how_ they were coated in metal, though. Was that part of the necromancy, an abomination? Or a quite different spell, or a _technique_? It wasn’t hammered or welded on, and from what I could see it was completely smooth, even at the joint heads and sockets.”

“You’d need to check with her, Lady Varia, but Kel once implied it was a technique. A tank, she said — some sort of bath they were put in that coated them.” General Vanget drank from a Scanran quart-pot he was sharing with his brother. “I see why you’re interested. If it was just craft, not blasphemy, it could be very useful. But whatever it was went up in smoke with the rest of the keep, so there are no clues left.”

“Unless the elemental knows.” Taren shrugged as King Jonathan stared at him. “If it saw the children, perhaps it saw the tank.”

“Well, that will make for an interesting conversation.” King Jonathan sighed, and drank from his own quart-pot shared with Queen Thayet. “And frustration, I bet, but if Numair and Keladry don’t object I’ll try.” He looked round as horses splashed across the ford. “Ah, the funeral’s done.”

Even before they left the castle Guards and ogres had been reducing the leaves of the gate to baulks, and stacking them into a hollow pyre for Hengist Reidarsson’s bones. Those of the Council of Ten had politely declined offers of attendance and witness, and it had been several hours since a distant _whump_ and brief blaze of flame above the trees had signalled a dragon lighting it. Both Kel and Dom had eaten as soon as they had reached the meadow, and long been asleep, Tobe and Irnai tucked beside them and a half-dozen Guards arrayed in solemn and unblinking watch ; when they ate themselves, King Jonathan had ordered plates taken to the Clanchiefs where they kept vigil as the pyre burned down. Now Taren saw them return clean plates to the cooks, offering thanks, and heard General Vanget’s observation of it pitched for Prince Loup. They were all sitting on logs collected during the afternoon while the village was set to rights, and he shifted to make room for Jorvik, Ragnar, and other clanchiefs, Gella groaning and rubbing her back.

“I’m too old for all this, however I’d not miss it. Lady Kel’s a wonder, right enough, but somehow everyone always ends up more wrung out than they knew they could be.”

As Jorvik and others laughed Taren realised she’d spoken in Scanran and he’d understood every word. Remembering that Prince Roald had taken his pensive wife to a bed in the village, and seeing General Vanget listening to his brother, he hastily offered King Jonathan and Queen Thayet a quiet translation, and saw them smile.

“Thank you, my lord. I catch words but not grammar. My Bazhir’s good, and my Carthaki by now, but my Scanran’s lagged.”

Taren didn’t hear it but someone must have said something, for all the Scanrans shifted into Common.

“I gather we have you to thank for the food, Jonathan, and we do.”

“You’re welcome, Jorvik. All is concluded satisfactorily?”

“Yes. I knew Hengist Reidarsson a little, and wherever he now is he’ll be boasting he has been consumed by the fire of _draca_. Should Maggur be with him, the younger brother’s lot of mere sunbirds’ fire will be rubbed in.”

To every mortal’s surprise Kawit and all the listening dragons, even Lord Jadewing, found this hysterical, and minds filled with laughter. A chortling Skysong explained that she had lit the pyre as a courtesy, and if a mortal spirit thought that finer than a sunbird-fletched, god-made and -given arrow sent true by the Protector after the greatest dance of the dead in an age he deserved the confusion he felt.

Ragnar frowned. “So Maggur had the greater honour, Lady Skysong?”

_The more unusual treatment, Ragnar Ragnarsson, but he was specifically exempted from Kel’s prayer to the Black God, and burned without his head, with which the Stone Tree Nation was dancing catch._

There was more immortal laughter, but it was not unkind, and Kawit cocked her head.

_What is more interesting to me is that this brother’s soul was not sundered, though he was seemingly murdered and his body dishonoured without mortal rites. Nor was the murder discovered, though probably a kinslaying. The Protector believes gods read the Timeway well and let Maggur run, tolerating even necromancy as they did for the potency with which she ended it, and him. It would speak to their current respect for her. The morrow will not lack for interest._

Everyone could agree with the last, however the rest provoked mortal stares, and Taren found himself considering the croggled look on Prince Loup’s face. No-one had said anything about Kel’s conversation with the Graveyard Hag, but Taren thought that, despite the wonders the prince had already seen, an actual god appearing and _chatting_ had sunk deep in that corpulent breast. Then again, Lord Dabeyoun’s laugh, avid consumption of food, and present repose, with a heap of Hounds inside the circle of Kel’s Guards, wouldn’t have done any harm, either. But Var had been thinking through Kawit’s words.

“Kawit, if you _read the Timeway well_ do you really have a clear picture, or just a good guess about how fragments might add up?”

_The latter, Varia. Even for Shakith few visions are more than a glimpse — but one brushstroke of a very large picture, if you will. Yet around a decisive moment, or one who will affect the Timeway as the Protector has, and in his way Maggur Reidarsson, brushstrokes will gather. One must seek the patterns, but I am increasingly sure that long before they could put a name to her, older gods saw events that would come with the great roil constellating around a force as yet unborn, and that which would feed those events they let pass when otherwise they might not have been so generous._

“Huh. They saw a Kel-shaped hole in this future?”

_Indeed. That is a fine phrase, Varia._

“Thank you, Kawit, but I wouldn’t mention it to Kel. I doubt she’d be amused by it as an excuse for divine inaction.”

There was another gust of immortal laughter.

 _That is no doubt true, Varia._ Kawit’s mindvoice was very rich. _But perhaps more reason to tell her than to be silent. She has a splendid line in deferential yet stinging rebukes, from which none are exempt._

“Tell me about it.”

Taren wasn’t sure who else heard King Jonathan’s mutter, but saw the Queen’s mouth quirk and King Lewis’s gaze rest curiously on his fellow monarch. But wider conversation ended as Lord Jadewing said something to dragons alone that had them all pondering, and the king and queen set off for billets on offer in the village, taking King Lewis and Prince Loup. Princess Lianne said she’d stay a while, and after a moment the king nodded, detaching guards to wait for her. As people rearranged themselves, clanchiefs dropping back into Scanran, she came to sit beside him.

“Your Royal Highness?”

“Just Lianne, please, tonight at least. Gods know titles didn’t mean much today.”

“They didn’t, did they? Except Protector of the Small.”

“Yes.” She swallowed. “I was struck by what you and Varia said about being hunted, and being caught. I thought of myself being bartered and bargained for, traded, not hunted, and I’d known for years that would happen. Mama never let us keep delusions. So although I didn’t much care for the process, ambassadors staring at me as they would a mare they were thinking of buying, I wasn’t unhappy. Being caught, though … well, I told you. It was awful, even without what happened to Anna. And I’ve found myself so angry about it all, seeing what a _fool_ Loup is, what a weak reed, and knowing half of those courtiers I trusted knew it full well and still pushed me to marry him so Papa or Roald would have been drawn in to prop up the House of Barbonne when he inherited.”

Taren nodded, having worked that one out a while back. “Yes. That’s why Kel was so, um, brusque with them, I’m pretty sure. She didn’t appreciate the strategy at all, for you or for herself and New Hope.”

“No. Papa didn’t either, and says he didn’t realise how bad Loup was. There’ll be a new ambassador soon. But today … Gods! but it’s put what happened to me, and even Anna, into new perspective. What’s one swiftly dead friend or a frightened princess to the hundreds who died here? Or to those who had to watch kin gibbeted alive and left to rot for years?”

“I hear you, Your … Lianne, but I don’t think it … I’ll say works quite like that.” Var spoke softly but with some steel in her voice. “Suffering and grief can’t well be tallied or weighed. A life taken is a life taken, swift or slow, and that Zerhalm has mourned his wife longer doesn’t mean you mourn Anna less.”

Taren and Sam both nodded sharply.

“Nor that it was any easier for you to see her spirit than for Zerhalm to see his wife’s. And I’ll bet your courage then was a model for him today.”

“He saw it, Taren?”

“Yes, he was there.”

“Oh.” There was a meditative silence before Lianne raised her head. “Thank you, Varia, Taren. That’s helpful, though I’m not sure why, exactly. In any case, I’ve decided I’m off the marriage market for a year at least, while I take a long look at myself, and that will produce any amount of screaming back in Corus. I don’t care, but it will be loud and dull, so if it gets to be too much might I come to Stone Mountain for a few weeks?”

Taren blinked surprise, mind spinning, but didn’t hesitate. “Once I’m back, certainly, though I warn you my mother and aunt will be profoundly shocked, highly delighted, and seriously, ah, well, imaginatively ambitious, I suppose one could say.”

“They’ll want us courting, you mean?”

“Yes. I can speak to them, but …”

“I understand. Others will think as much too. Shall you mind?”

Taren’s thoughts spun into clarity though abruptly widening, and he spoke carefully. “People of all ranks jump to wrong conclusions all the time, Lianne. It’s one of the things Kel’s been teaching me about, and trying to beat out of me. So that aspect wouldn’t bother me at all. But I will not enter into any pretence, by speech or silence. A friend and host, surely and happily, but not a false shield.”

Lianne looked at him intently, and nodded. “Fair enough. And I would want no _false_ shield, Taren. But I don’t think I know what I do want any more, if I ever did, so I shall go to bed and think about it.”

Taren wanted his own bedroll and some quiet to think, but before seeking it he, Sam, and Var went to sit briefly beside a notably silent Piers and Ilane, who smiled at them.

“That was well done, Taren.” Piers sighed. “Lianne’s grown hard and fast these last weeks, and she’s working it through well, I think, but you’re being very good with her. And for her.”

Ilane nodded. “Yes. And she’s right there’ll be screaming, but right again to disregard it. Jonathan and Thayet will be having words with some who were pushing Loup.”

“So will Kel, I’d imagine, if she gets the chance.”

“Oh yes. Others, too. Tell me, though, do you care for Lianne as more than friend and host?”

“I honestly don’t know, Ilane. The … presumption had not occurred to me. I like her, and admire her courage, but anything more is too new an idea, and it’s not as if either of us has a truly free hand.”

“Mmm. Freer than you might think, I fancy, dear. Kel’s quietly bent Lianne’s ear once or twice, and if anyone got past Jonathan and Thayet to try to push her now I think they’d find themselves in deep water very swiftly.” Ilane gave Piers a wry look. “Our Kel has become a fearsome warrior-diplomat, hasn’t she just?”

“In spades, my dear, and between Realms as much as nations.”

Taren took the opportunity to ask what he’d come to ask. “Has today been very hard for you?”

“I wouldn’t say _very_ , Taren dear, but distinctly odd.” Ilane and Piers had their own quart-pot, and she sipped, grimacing at potent Scanran beer. “We’ve known for years that Kel’s grown far beyond us, but seeing it writ so very large is always … what’s that word Alanna uses?”

“Discombobulating?”

“That’s the one. The healers say our backs have discs, don’t they? Well, mine are bobulating nicely tonight.”

“Mine too, my dear.” Piers blew out a reflective breath. “Even animal gods Kel can’t name answer her gladly. And she just carries on. But frankly I’m more preoccupied wondering why I hadn’t thought about all the things that needed doing today, when I know her Rathhausak report and casualty roll by heart, and was just as well aware that this place has remained deserted because it is thought haunted as well as accursed.”

“Ah. I wondered that too, Piers.” Taren stretched his legs out. “We knew the souls of the murdered children were safe with the Black God, and so forgot their bodies. And the Scanrans’. But Kel seems to forget very little. And the Graveyard Hag’s, um, grumbling had no bite to it that I could hear. For all their seeming delinquencies, I think the gods appreciate thoroughness.”

“And efficiency, Tar.” Var half-smiled at him. “They don’t have staff to sort logistics, which is why they like parsimony, I bet. It’s easier.”

Sam laughed. “I’ll buy that, Var, but they’re all agog, too. Melting a castle into a monument makes them blink as much as it does us. Today was hard for many reasons, but I think tomorrow will be better fun.”

Piers and Ilane didn’t disagree, though both remained meditative, and it was a thought Taren carried into sleep, and vivid dreams filled with stone’s persistence and excitement at cleansing change.

 

❦

 

He woke before dawn, stiff and slightly chilled, to see Kel pattern dancing, a soft glow from the Staff of Light supplementing false dawn and glinting ruby on her glaive blade. Dabeyoun and the hounds watched, seeming to appreciate pure grace of movement and balance, as he had before and did again. Sam and Var were awake, and at Sam’s prodding they rose, secured bedrolls, and set about limbering up themselves ; by the time they were loose sparring partners were available, and if the clack of staffs and ring of metal at first seemed a violation of tranquility it served as a wake-up call for sluggards, bringing royals and others from the village, and with better light cued Kel to don half-armour and switch to sparring — or her version of it — with an armoured spidren, a rolling clangour of blades moving far too fast for Taren to follow. Other training slowed as mortals watched with open mouths and immortals with intent appreciation that became vocal applause as Kel, pushed hard, pulled off some lightning manoeuvre that had the spidren stumbling to one side and her _katana_ resting an inch before its nose. It was a sterner display than usual, and that it left King Lewis and other experienced men very thoughtful was no coincidence.

Good smells were being generated by busy cooks, and breakfast was far more varied than Taren expected — boosted, he realised, by stores recovered from village or castle cellars : bottled fruit, pickled onions, peppers, and shallots, even slices of smoked and cured meats, a little tough but, the cooks assured everyone, declared free of taint by mortal and magical authority. Some had been fried, and with fresh bread from village ovens there were, if not quite bacon rolls, a very acceptable substitute. There was also a quarry of boar and deer someone — spidrens, and maybe hounds — had taken overnight. Kel ate voraciously, clearly better than she had been the evening before, but was frowning and between bites shook her head.

“How did we miss this meat, Dom? The packhorses were laden, but we could have managed two or three of these cured sides and I’d not have had to agonise about slaughtering any of the horses.”

“We cleared out the kitchen, love, and had no time or energy to comb cellars. Zerhalm and Agrane took food from village pantries. Besides, it’s come in useful today. Cold game for breakfast palls faster than it once did, I find.”

“True enough. But still. I wasn’t thinking very well.”

Dom almost choked on his roll. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but having made an astonishing assault against all odds, taken out Stenmun and Blayce yourself, and been far more seriously wounded than you were letting on, you sorted our pyre, gave their dead to Barzha, detailed necessary arson while considering _blódbeallár_ , ransacked stable and kitchens, and had more than two hundred children and refugees mounted and moving within two hours — and you’re kicking yourself over some smoked meat?”

To Taren’s surprise Kel grinned.

“Of course I am, Dom. Who used to tell his men you have to learn from every mistake, whenever you realise it?”

Dom stared at his wife, and after a moment grinned back. “Gah.” Kel laughed, and Dom wagged a finger. “Even so. Who wrongly blamed himself for carelessness, and was taught better by you?”

“Low blow, love.”

“Truth all the same.”

“Maybe.”

But Kel’s frown had disappeared, and as she finished eating and went to speak to Lord Jadewing and Kawit Taren found himself appreciating both her severe self-judgement and Dom’s sensible correction of it. How could one be at once severe on and forgiving of one’s younger self? Not being alone seemed the key, whether in the kind of marriage Kel and Dom enjoyed, and Piers and Ilane, or through the unbreakable sibling bonds he had with Sam and Var. Ragnar, eating beside him, cheerfully agreed, and he realised he had come to think of the larger-than-life Scanran as a beneficent version of his Uncle Henchard, just as passionate and fond of booming excess, but equally disciplined, thoughtful, and kind, as his uncle had never been. He spared Ragnar the thought, but amused Sam and Var considerably, and they faced the day as cheerfully as they were refreshed and well fed.

With everyone more or less done eating, Kel stood on a handy table — which must also have come from the village or castle cellars — and hoisted her command voice so all could hear.

“Everyone is welcome today, but two words of warning. First, a _lot_ of stone will be falling, so keep well back, eh? and _don’t_ let any of it land on you. Horses must be well picketed, as it’ll be noisy. We’ll be moving stone around too, so have a care of those working, please. And second, you know we have some sundered as witnesses. Be gentle around those who are their kin — imagine you had _your_ grateful dead with _you_.” Taren blinked. “And there will be more witnesses, though I’m not sure who. Lord Jadewing asked Lord Diamondflame to help with reshaping the keep, and he may bring others. Then there are gods, whom I wasn’t expecting until the Graveyard Hag suggested the spectacle and some side-business, which as far as I know isn’t a mortal concern, will attract them. If so, your consciences are your own, but while I hope they’ll be more relaxed than not, do _please_ remember that grovelling irritates them almost as much as disrespect and purely selfish requests. Now let’s be about it — that castle has seen far too much, and I want it gone.”

Taren enjoyed Neal’s muttered ‘Only Kel’ as well as bemused Gallan looks, but saw Jorvik, Ragnar, and others had learned to take her pronouncements if not quite in their stride then with some equanimity ; even King Jonathan only quirked an eyebrow at his queen, and Princess Shinkokami looked more resigned than alarmed as she mounted. The sky was cloudless and as they crossed the ford, hounds and Dabeyoun splashing alongside, dragon heads turned up, Taren’s following them to see a long spiral of descending shapes. By the time Kel reached the cleared zone Lord Diamondflame was down, offering cheerful greetings, and others were landing, looking about with interest — there being a great deal to see.

Besides Rathhausakers with their sundered, sitting quietly in patterns suggesting the invisible among them, ogres and others had clearly been at work all night and a remarkable amount of stuff had been cleared out. Besides a substantial pile of foodsacks and jars, and another of metal objects — candlesticks, old firejacks and spitroasts, rusty weaponry and armour, dented pewter mugs, the cages and broken chains, and more, some of which Taren did not wish to identify — there was an array of furniture, rickety chairs and dusty screens piled on tables, and a heap of motheaten furs, skins, and bolts of cloth. There was also a collection of curious and disparate things, and as they and others inspected it Var looked up at Ragnar.

“Is that a stuffed bird?”

He peered. “I think so, but what it was when it was alive I haven’t a clue.” He opened a box, smiled broadly, and tilted it to show them a set of delicately carved ornaments. “These, though, are very fine. The custom lapsed under Maggur, but they are hung at solstices. This is a winter set, quite old. If there is a summer set as good, they will be worth a sum that will surprise Kel. We should do some inventory.”

He called Jorvik and the other clanchiefs over, and Taren left them to it, looking at what else was happening. Kel had been conferring with Lord Diamondflame and other dragons, but left Tobe and Their Majesties to introduce King Lewis, heading first for the group of Rathhausakers, to speak to them and, presumably, the watching dead ; then to some waiting ogres, who at her direction drove in three stakes, on which she perched the skulls she’d held back, hollow eyesockets towards the scene of their worst crimes ; next to consider the piles of salvage, listen to Jorvik and Ragnar, shake her head, thank them, and ask Ebony to tell Mikal to get a score of heavy carts on their way ; and finally towards the castle, Lord Jadewing, basilisks, ogres, and mages in tow. Considering the sundered he could not see and the skulls he could, Taren swallowed, feeling his gut tighten, but the day was acquiring the feel of an enormous picnic as people arranged themselves along the eaves of the cleared zone, picketing horses, collecting chairs from the furniture array, and settling in congenial groups ; cooks and spare hands began to gather deadwood, hounds disposed themselves in sunny spots, Dabeyoun went to sit by the skulls, and a buzz of conversation rose.

He took Sam and Var to pay respects to dragons they knew, seeing mages and basilisks shift into the formation familiar from Aussonne, and was listening to Lady Skysong telling her grandsire (and other dragons, all sharply attentive) about events of yesterday from her unique perspective when the first great rumble began and all turned. Kel had started on the nearest west wall, north of the barbican ; merlons were already quivering, and as the rock-spell faded the whole swayed forward and pitched to earth — not, as at Aussonne, a double wall with loose fill, but a single, deep structure, laid with headers and stretchers that separated as it fell. No sooner had Numair cleared the dust than Lord Jadewing leaned forward and with a sparkle of his green magic ashlar blocks were picked up in a string and whirled several hundred yards to be set down in neat rows that soon became a square and acquired a second tier. In the meantime basilisks and mages had shifted towards the barbican, but before they could set about it Lord Jadewing looked round at his fellow dragons.

_This would be swifter, you know, if some of you were to help with moving and stacking. Nightbreath, Moonwind, you were always good at magical catch, and you, Bluecrest._

The great dragon didn’t wait for a reply before turning back to the task in hand — or paw — and dragons looked at one another and then at Lord Diamondflame, who, Taren thought, returned his own version of a bland shrug. After a moment the pearly-white dragon Kel had told off on Samradh eve and two others rose to stalk towards castle and stonepile, and as the barbican began to fall, its depth requiring three blasts of the rockspell, ashlar barely reached the ground before being whirled to the pile and stacked neatly. Lord Diamondflame rose slightly to say something Taren didn’t hear, but deduced as the pile began to extend horizontally rather than vertically, so mortals could access it for reuse. As he settled again Taren bowed.

“That was kind of you, my lord. A large, low pile will be much easier for those needing it. And you rejoice, I think, at the Protector’s care for all she knows.”

A large eye regarded him thoughtfully.

_I do, Taren of Stone Mountain. Has she spent much time with Jadewing?_

“Some, certainly, my lord, though she has had much else to do. Lady Kawit, Lady Skysong, and Lady Icefall have been with him most — they are often together of an evening, on the green with other immortals.”

_Ah. I might have guessed. What have you been speaking of, Skysong?_

The dragonet was perched within the claws of one upturned paw, and her reply was private to her grandsire, listening closely. Taren turned back to see a further section of the west wall, south of the barbican, crash down and whirl away, and slung an arm round Var’s shoulders.

“Useful, eh?”

“It’s wonderful, Tar, but one can hardly count on having dragon magic and strength available. I do wonder though …”

Lord Diamondflame still being engrossed with Lady Skysong, Var turned the other way and curtsied to Lady Wingstar, also listening but less intently.

_You would ask something, Varia of Stone Mountain?_

“If I may, my lady, I was wondering if dragons _enjoyed_ helping out like this. I wouldn’t presume for the world, but there is _so_ much that needs doing in the mortal realm.”

 _We are beginning to agree with darkings that there is a case for doing, rather than observing and talking. But today is art as much as work, and building Drachifethe stirred interests long faded._ Lady Wingstar looked contemplative. _What had you in mind?_

“Well, today’s art is mine and Tar’s as much as anyone’s, my lady, and there will be more memorials of one or another kind. But do you know what Stone Mountain has contracted with the Guild?”

_Not in detail, Varia. Tell me._

Taren half-listened as Var did, impressed by her clarity about the things basilisks and ogres could do readily and where they might be pressed — notably in stabilising and reshaping the largest spoil-heaps that blighted Stone Mountain’s landscape — but also watched Castle Rathhausak steadily disappearing into history as the sun rose towards its zenith, shadows retreated, and interesting smells spread from cooks’ fires. He had wondered about the south wall, hard by the swift Pakkai and partly screened by the gaunt bulk of the keep, but Jadewing simply picked up basilisks and mages and deposited them on the far bank before following himself with Lady Moonwind, standing right behind them and _catching_ the ashlar as it fell ; not one stone splashed into the Pakkai, and all, after bouncing on sheets of dragon magic, whizzed in a great arc to the ever-enlarging pile, where Lady Nightbreath and Lord Bluecrest continued stacking. The east wall followed, ashlar swerving around exposed interior buildings, and stables and latrine block went before the final, north wall, to allow it to fall cleanly. It was still short of noon when the curtain wall was cleared, save its foundations, and after a discussion between Kel, Lord Jadewing, and mages and basilisks, the remaining barracks and hall were summarily despatched, leaving only foundations and keep, before they called a halt for lunch.

While most headed straight for food, Kel detoured to address the three skulls, making Dabeyoun laugh and ogres grin and bow, and from the way she looked aside at seemingly empty space the dead too. A wave at the cooks had one coming to report, and having listened, nodded, and given the man an encouraging clap on the shoulder she headed for Lord Diamondflame, Dabeyoun beside her.

_Protector._

“My lord. Not knowing how many were coming today, we can’t feed you all properly, I’m afraid, but there’s a snack on offer, at least — some stew with _wanizame_ , and a dozen or so extra roasts the hounds and spidrens brought in, though you may need to get there first.”

 _We do not mind sharing._ Wuodan had come up behind Kel, tongue lolling. _Especially after such a fine morning’s entertainment. What was the joke, Dabeyoun?_

_She told those three accursed that even the shadow of their memory will be scoured from the mortal realm, and their darkness made light, adding to Maggur that his longfathers would know he had caused the unmaking of all they had done. I laughed at the accuracy of her aim, which made for much wailing and recriminating._

_They listen, then?_

_They have no choice, Wuodan, but to peer unblinking from the sockets they once had._

Taren shivered at the thought, and even Lord Diamondflame cocked his head a little, but Kel’s face was implacable.

_You pursue them beyond death, Protector?_

“This once, my lord, and not for long.” Kel shrugged. “Rank and file I never loathed, and those who only obeyed I forgave long ago. But these three? A nightmare, his dog, and their master.” Dabeyoun yipped more amusement. “Even the Black God’s judges won’t have purged _them_ in only three years. As opportunity offered, I thought a little more humbling wouldn’t be amiss. As for myself, well, say that Unferth stirred feelings I don’t care for, and I’m purging myself as well as this place. Beyond that, the skulls will go into the memorial, which we should talk about.”

Besides Var’s sketches, Kel had drawings showing the shape Taren had imagined from every side and in cross-section, with its base and counterweighting sill, and showed intent dragons an exact model Master Geraint had shaped in clay, with a rougher model of how it should sit within the foundation-hole the keep would leave, and the panels that would need to be emplaced. Taren was very pleased with them, Kel had admitted they weren’t as bad as she’d feared, and Lord Diamondflame sounded thoughtful.

_It is a clean and pleasing shape, Protector, and those panels fine. To shape the statues on Drachifethe was only to let memory flow into the stone, but to shape this is an interesting challenge._

Taren dimly sensed the beginning of a far greater exchange between dragons than words allowed, shaking his head as it faded to see Wuodan and Dabeyoun obviously listening and Kel giving him a crooked grin.

“It would be nice, wouldn’t it? Then again, I’ve come to think it a good thing mortals have to use words. Gods know what we’d get up to with _that_ kind of communication. In any case, time for lunch.”

Walking beside her, with Sam and Var behind them, Taren risked a question that made him feel awkward.

“I don’t mean to pry, Kel, but are the dead alright with you, and you with them?”

“More or less, Tar.” She blew out a long breath. “The sundered, it turns out, _blur_ somewhat, with time. After long enough they are mostly just gone. These have had strong purpose, and some aid, I think, but it’s still … disconcerting, to say the least, though they’re relieved to be doing, at last.”

“And Zerhalm? We were worried for him.”

“Me too, but there is love and goodwill on both sides, as well as loss, and he and Hertha are reassuring one another, however true consolation is out of reach.”

“I am glad, then. And you? How bad is it?”

“I’ll be happier when we’re done, Tar. But I can’t honestly call it that bad. It’s just … a reminder, I suppose, of how useless what people call my heroics were for so many.”

“And how vital for so many more. Besides, Kel, is there _anyone_ here today, even dragons, whom you haven’t saved outright or signally helped? Protected, in a very generous sense?” She stared at him, and he slid the conversation sideways. “Lord Jadewing is pleased to have taken his peers so sharply aback, I fancy.”

Her crooked grin returned. “For all his size he’s been bullied, Tar, as gentle giants may be. And restriction to the Dragonlands was harder on him than most, I think, besides some educational holes we’ve been filling in.” The grin faded. “But the needlessly, vilely dead, Tar … they hurt. To feel it keenly is one price of being wrongfully alive, and blessed as I have so often and richly been by the Black God. I can’t say I’m anything but grateful, but I could do without the edge this place gives it.”

“And you’re missing the twins.”

“That too, but we’ll be heading back tomorrow.”

She went to speak to royals, and he, Sam, and Var collected plates for cooks to fill, avoided anything with _wanizame_ in it, and wound up sitting between King Lewis and other Gallans, talking in their own tongue on one side, and Piers and Ilane, with Sir Anders, Alanna, and Baron George on the other. Taren’s Gallan remained very thin, but it was clear the morning’s events had them reimagining what had happened at Aussonne with new clarity, including massed dragons, inducing a certain appalled sympathy for how wildly overmatched Lord Biron and his brothers had found themselves. To Mindelans he gave a quiet account of what Kel had said, and Piers sighed, the others’ lips tightening.

“Thank you, Taren. I’ve spoke with Kel several times about _wrongfully alive_ , but she feels what she feels. It’s not so much having been returned herself, all gods be thanked, but that others who died at the same time and in the same way weren’t still rankles. I had no answer, and while I can, well, file under gods and gratitude, I suppose, that cuts little ice with Kel.”

“Surprise.” Taren shrugged. “But we all live with our debts. And she’s purging some of them with those skulls.”

When Alanna asked, one eyebrow high, he repeated Dabeyoun’s remark, and she stared before giving a crooked grin oddly like Kel’s.

“Good for Kel. Darkness become light, eh? And shame before his longfathers? Quite right too.”

Var leant forward. “She thinks of shadows a lot. In the ‘Note’ it’s the shadow of the gods, and here the shadows of memory. It makes me wonder if she likes the memorial design because it uses its own shadow.”

“It’s one reason, my lady.” Sir Anders spoke softly. “But I suspect that if you have seen the Black God’s face, shadows don’t look quite the same. Nor light. And for all immortals say Kel rides the Timeway, I believe it presses on her yet. What do I know? But she often says it likes its echoes, and memorials may speak _of_ the past, but they speak _to_ the future.”

“Oh yes, Sir Anders. They are warnings, though few heed them. This one, though …” Taren spread his hands. “Who knows quite what it may be? But Kel’s made it another form of spiritual warfare.”

Var rested a hand on his arm, and Ilane smiled warmly.

“Thank you, Taren dear. I knew there was something I was missing. Against whom, though? Would-be necromancers seems … not enough.”

“No. People with castles who suppose power a license to blaspheme, maybe. But I think it’s more anyone who sees it, Ilane. Like Drachifethe, it’ll linger in the mind.”

It did not take adult dragons long to eat what were no more than snacks, though they were careful to strip meat, leaving larger bones for the hounds, and before long Lord Diamondflame and others walked over to inspect foundations that remained and rumble magic at the keep that made its stones briefly glow a greeny-blue. Kel would not hurry Numair and the mages unduly, and ate well herself, but once they were done there was no dawdling, and many spectators followed in her wake, some still finishing stuffed rolls. She now bore the Staff of Light, the ruby sparkling as the sun caught it but seeming more subdued than it had before dawn. How foundations and cellars were to be dealt with Taren had never been sure, but after a few moments’ conference mortals stood back, dragons and basilisks positioned themselves on either side of the line of the curtain wall, save those who went to the now enormous pile of ashlar, and dragons hummed a note almost too low to hear that reverberated in Taren’s stomach. Spurts of earth shot up here and there, and basilisks added a cacophony that wasn’t any rock spell he had ever heard, though it had the same rolling stones and shrieks in it, and made him want to shift and stamp his feet — an effect others clearly felt too. Fingers of Lord Jadewing’s green magic dug into the earth and stones began popping free to arc away for catching and stacking.

It was slower business than the morning’s work, the wall’s foundation stones being more massive, as well as compressed together, but they were no match for dragons. The catchers stacked them in a separate pile, as they did flagstones of courtyard and hall, and stones that had merely been cellar walls came more easily, adding yards to the main pile and leaving behind a pocked and buckled terrain that mortal mages tidied and made safer. Loosened earth provided some fill and sheer sides were collapsed, so while care would still be needed there was nothing anyone could fall into or be trapped in. As Var observed, grass and wildflowers would stabilise raw earth quickly enough — and they might not have to wait that long, for as attention turned to the keep, now as solitary as it was gaunt, silver blossomed in a long line between spectators and dragons, and gods stepped into the world.

Rising from his knees, Taren saw fewer than had been at Aussonne, but Lord Mithros and the Great Goddess were there, a very handsome cat beside them, with Lord Weiryn and the Green Lady, Lord Sakuyo, the Graveyard Hag, and what must be Lady Shakith, blind eyes in a hawklike face. Alanna was staring hard, hounds were converging on Lord Weiryn, Daine not far behind, and as Kel walked towards Lord Mithros and the Goddess, face carefully neutral, Taren found his thoughts whirling, for whatever further purpose the High Ones might have, they too were attending the picnic, bringing with them a distinctly festive air. Lord Mithros wore a soldier’s tunic but no armour, the Goddess and Green Lady had coronets of summer flowers, and the Hag sported an eyepatch embroidered with a skull and question-mark, while Lord Sakuyo’s white robes showed his _kanji_ -portrait spoken by stone in Edo, _jest_ and _tranquility_ making the laughing god, and two other intertwined _kanji_ Taren recognised from Blessed Matsuo’s sacred hankie as the monogram of _Sakuyo_ and _Protector_. Those earned a long look from Kel, returned with a cheery wave, before she bowed to them all, and spoke to Lord Mithros and the Goddess.

“My lord, my lady.”

“Protector.” Lord Mithros’s voice was mellow, clashing arms audible but very distant. “Before you ask, my sister Shakith has some interest, as my brother Weiryn for such a change to his lands, my niece of death for those skulls, and my brother Sakuyo for your sense of humour, but we come only to observe. You keep being so very interesting, you see, and for a god novelty is hard to come by.”

There was a pregnant pause while gods considered Kel with amused enquiry, and she considered them right back.

“Is it, my lord? How ... odd. I shall bear it in mind.” Taren thought Lord Mithros blinked, and Dabeyoun certainly laughed, though neither gods nor Kel took any notice. “In any case, be welcome to what little is left of Castle Rathhausak, however late in the day. I would offer you food, but I’m afraid it was all eaten. And though I would not, of course, ask you to sing for a supper you haven’t had, I wonder if it would please you to add your descant to the song of stone to which dragons, basilisks, and mortals both living and dead will give voice.”

Taren wasn’t sure if Lord Mithros was suppressing a smile or a wince.

“That is well asked, Protector, and we shall. For the rest, I hear you, but consider all you now know. We rejoice today, even as you do, and after longer labour still.”

Kel bowed her head. “I know it, my lord, yet yours was never labour in just and pressing despair of the event, cleaving only to the stubborn pride of doomed resistance. As you must harry us beyond our ability to withstand, so we must suffer more than even you know. The Timeway did not rebuke you without reason, my lord, and that reason is gathered here as nowhere else known to me.”

“Truth, Protector, and honestly spoken.” Lord Mithros was still mellow-voiced, though Taren could see many people staring, slack-jawed. “Almost you counsel us as you do your king, without fear or favour, and we appreciate it, as he does. We come to honour as we can, as well as in witness, and do not stint of grace when we may.”

Kel bowed again. “I try to understand, my lord, only doubting what weight mortal loss and grief has in your scales. Do our deaths weigh on you as those of mules on me?” Lord Mithros’s face became still. “I do not say or know that it should be so, but if you would have counsel, know that I would never purge my dreams of mules as I will this day of those whose skulls I kept back from the pyre, for I regret the mules every day. And if you will excuse me, we should be about it.”

Lord Mithros nodded, face grave, and Kel bowed once more, before smiling at the Goddess, kneeling to stroke the approving cat, and going on to other gods. Lord Weiryn and the Green Lady, beset by hounds and daughter, offered simple greetings, Kel asking them to thank the deer and boar gods for their bounty, but the Graveyard Hag was more talkative, accepting a compliment on her jaunty eye-patch with a cackle.

“Playing with skulls is a very promising development, dearie, even if those stakes are a bit unimaginative with giants’ bones lying about just down the road.”

She laughed at what Taren suspected was a very old-fashioned look, and Kel’s voice was cool.

“Alas, I dare say my imagination was used up on other things, my lady, and I do try not to muddle up victims and perpetrators.”

“Such scruples you have, dearie, it’s quite the collection. There aren’t enough left to go round.”

Lord Sakuyo grinned. “She’s perfectly incorrigible, daughter, so you needn’t bother arguing, especially when you could hear me tell you how proud I am instead. Aussonne was altogether splendid, and this is still finer. I must be a better teacher than even I realise.”

“What a nice surprise for you, my lord. How’s the brush hand?”

“Quite free of cramp despite my Yamanis keeping it so very busy, thank you, daughter. I can use both at once, of course. And I _am_ looking forward to my _kanji_ -house, so marvellously elegant in the middle of nowhere.”

“Then your thanks should properly go to Taren and Varia, my lord, and Dabeyoun, who’ll find us someone to keep it.” Kel’s voice softened. “You have mine for the flowers on the girls’ graves, though.”

“It was my pleasure, daughter. But greet my sister now.”

Kel nodded and turned to Lady Shakith, offering a bow.

“Protector.” The hawks were far closer than Lord Mithros’s clash of arms had been, blind face intent, on the Staff as much as Kel herself. “You please the Timeway as well as all three realms today, and it is as much a beginning as a fulfilment. That staff hungers for its moment, so be about it, and leave me with my daughter.”

Staring at gods Taren had missed Irnai’s approach, swallowing as Kel bowed, turning away, and Lady Shakith sat cross-legged, welcoming a smiling Irnai to her lap. Alanna was crouched by the Goddess, fingers scratching the cat’s ruff, and from odds of information he’d picked up Taren realised it must be not Queenclaw but the erratic constellation who had guided Alanna as page and squire. The temptation to continue watching gods was severe, with Lord Mithros still looking thoughtful, the Goddess gazing at Alanna and the cat with a smile, and Irnai as relaxed as Taren had ever seen her, but _they_ were here to watch Kel, and missing anything would be foolish, so he tore his attention back to the keep. Kel had stopped by the skulls, where Dabeyoun sat, and after a long look exchanged with Lord Diamondflame work began.

A funnel of mortal magic focused the melting spell in a narrow band around the base of the keep, and with dragon magic ensuring no stones strayed the whole structure dropped once, shuddered, dropped again and with a great rumble collapsed into its own cellars and dungeons, dust boiling straight up and being promptly slapped back to earth. Numair arranged mortal magic in a containing dome over the heaped rubble, and basilisks began a far more sustained melting spell, each staggering its pauses to breath so the spell was continuous. Within seconds heaped rubble was quivering, and the top of the pile soon began to sink, but after a moment Lord Jadewing looked round.

_Diamondflame, if you add to Numair’s containment, I will boost the basilisks’ spell. Kawit and I have worked out how to use my strength to do so. It is useful._

There was again what Taren thought a degree of shock among other dragons, though Lord Diamondflame only nodded.

 _That is commendable, Jadewing_.

The magic keeping the basilisks’ rolling spell where it ought to be visibly thickened, and with obvious concentration Lord Jadewing sent a thin streamer of green magic to twine through the basilisks’ focused sound and spread over the pile, becoming after a moment a rising flood of green. The volume of the basilisks’ spell increased sharply, the ground vibrating under Taren’s feet, and the pile slumped, some stones bobbing briefly like dry wood in water before sinking into what became a bulging surface as more dragons extended magic and a great ball of melted stone began to rise. Tendrils trailed from it — or rather climbed into it, the last of what had been foundations rising from the gaping hole to swell the mass. The basilisks fell silent, some standing aside to clear the way between the ball of stone and Kel, still by the three skulls some fifty yards back, and the ball changed shape, enlarging slightly and developing a hollow that deepened and widened, gaping towards Kel like a mouth. All the dragons were breathing deeply, but there was no obvious strain in Lord Diamondflame’s mindvoice.

_As you will, Protector._

“Thank you, my lord, and all. Now, then.” Kel turned to stand in front of the skulls, and her voice rang in the air, carrying a purer scorn than Taren had ever heard. Hairs on his neck and arms stood up.

“As I was the last sight each of you had in life, so I am again. Now as clanless as you are dead, nothing any of you desired will remain, even your shadows made light. And by my request and the grace of Lord Gainel, none you harmed shall ever dream of you again, neither mortal nor immortal, child nor adult, man nor woman. Even the darkness forgets you utterly, and so your evil follows you from this realm for ever.”

She lifted Blayce’s skull from its stake.

“By the power of others you were let as a _nicor_ , but to me you were always the Nothing Man, as weak in mind and shrivelled in soul as you were vile in selfish purpose, and to less than nothing you are come. Blayce Younger, know oblivion now and always as your just reward.”

Hooking her fingers into the hole that had once perched on Blayce’s spine, Kel took a single quick step and bowled his skull in a high arc to vanish into the waiting stone mouth. Molten stone and Firestone pulsed as she turned back to lift Stenmun’s skull, jabbing a finger into the circular hole in his forehead.

“Now _there’s_ a death-blow I have no regrets about giving. You didn’t lack courage, only judgement, kindness, and conscience, and your loyalty to your paymaster was not extended to those you paid. Scornful in life of gods and kin alike, you are repaid a thousandfold in death, and you too are in all justice come to less than nothing. Stenmun Kinless, your son does not nor ever will know your name.”

How Kel could say that Taren had no idea, but Scanran eyes were bright and fierce as Stenmun’s skull followed Blayce’s, and he saw Queen Barzha and all stormwings — forced to the nearest trees by the loss of the curtain wall — follow its trajectory with avid gazes that swung back to Kel as grey stone and ruby pulsed again. She lifted Maggur’s skull with fingertips resting in stormwing gouges.

“And then there is you, purblind with greedy ambition and stupid to the last, whose every effort was as misconceived as it was selfish, vile, and blasphemous. Your clan died with you, the clanhome of your longfathers is razed as it had never been, the nation you ruled flourishes with your loss, and none can be bothered to take the throne you craved and abused. Maggur Reidarsson, kindless, faithless, trustless, and witless, you should have stuck to grinding corn.”

As a king’s skull arced towards stone terrible laughter followed it, the Hag’s and stormwing cackles threaded by Dabeyoun’s unnerving peal, celebrating jest and justice alike, and rising above all, as stone pulsed a third time, a booming thunder that could only be Lord Sakuyo ; but Kel was still until it faded, and her voice again rang across the field.

“My lords and ladies, and High Ones if you will, I pray you purge now that stone of the guilt and witness forced on it, and let it rejoice with light in its new form.”

Lord Diamondflame inclined his head. _Protector, we will, and gladly_.

Denser magic wrapped the stone and fire flooded from all dragons to sink into the molten mass as gods walked forward to stand between them. Like all mortals Taren had to squint, raising a hand to shield eyes from light and heat, sensing as much as seeing stone redden, shading through orange towards white. Streamers of silver came from all seven gods, twining around the almost incandescent sphere in writhing lines and compressing it as they too sank in, as you might squeeze clay with a hand. As it shrank it became brighter still, a pulsing whiteness like a silver sun that for one fleeting moment had the shape of a jawless skull before immensity of light forbade further vision. For three thudding heartbeats Taren could see through eyelids the bones of his hands before his face, hearing his own harsh breaths, then gods spoke together, more of Lord Sakuyo’s laughter thundering above that distant fury of battle, belling hounds, and screaming hawks. What the words might be or mean Taren had no clue, but light pulsed, once and again, before the top of the ball opened to allow a great beam of burning air to shoot up and stone began to expand again, seeking its new shape.

The rectangular base came first, smaller than the area the keep had occupied, and spikes to anchor it rayed from its underside before it sank into the exact centre of the foundation hole and settled to a grinding halt. Slim arches of stone grew from east and west sides to form elegant bridges over the marginal space left, rooting themselves in the ground beyond, while from north and south sides the counterweighting sill on which the projected images of the panels would fall, and the shape Taren had imagined, began to form. The sill stayed broad, dense, and low, its angled upper surface no higher than his waist, but the folded slice of cone grew and grew, slimming as it widened, reaching up in pure geometry and silently folding to the exactly correct angle as the spaces for the panels opened like a row of windows and sunlight came through to paint squares on the sill below. Above the fold it expanded yet further, extending the clean lines to a tapered edge fifty feet above the ground, and the magic shifted purpose, drawing heat out to dissipate in the sky as basilisks came forward and the roar of the setting spell began to solidify base and bridges, sill and the lower section of the geometry. The rock spell was also at work, Taren realised, petrifying the sides of the foundation hole into a stone chasm ; and once that was done, the last stage was to lift Var’istaan and others to set the uppermost section, and emplace the panels before stone closed around them, projected colours arrayed on the sill. Basilisks returned to earth, the gods’ silver and many colours of dragon magic withdrew, silence returned, and he took the first breath he could remember in a while, finding Var’s hand in his and contemplating what they had helped to bring into being.

Kel had rightly said keep and castle were built of the same limestone found at New Hope, and in his imagination the memorial had always had its light but impure colour and rough texture, but what stood before him gleamed, as smooth as finest silk ; not limestone but marble, damascened silver-on-white, and against it the colours of the panels and their projections blazed, vibrant and intense. In the final panel, which showed the memorial itself, echoing Lord Sakuyo’s recursive painting in the Edoan temple, the openings for the panels were blank, holes without rockice or colour, and through them, amid all the hues around, twelve narrow fingers of sunlight rayed down to glitter golden on the silvery sill. He sighed pleasure, and his hand tightened on Var’s as Kel shook herself out of her own contemplation, bowing low to gods and dragons.

“My lords and ladies, High Ones, and all who have made this possible, mortal and immortal, my deepest thanks, for myself, for New Hope, and for the guiltless dead. All are honoured, and light rejoices with the Timeway.” She turned, holding the Staff of Light aloft with a ruby glint, and her voice held that strange edge, though as quiet order rather than harsh command. “Come, all you dead safe in memory, as now in stone, come with your living to pass through the honour mortals, immortals, and gods have done you, and let them farewell you to your long-denied rest.”

All eyes followed the living as they came slowly to Kel, faces calm though cheeks were wet, and followed her towards the memorial, curving around to come to the eastern bridge. Gods and dragons were intent as Kel walked up its slight rise, Zerhalm behind her, and descended again to the base, turning to look up at the first panel, showing Rathhausak in its innocence, and raising the Staff so the panel’s projection fell on it. Light flared dazzlingly, reddening marble, and instinctively turning his head away Taren saw that the gods too glimmered strangely, their Staff-light shadows far larger than their visible bodies should cast ; but his attention was drawn back, breath hitching, for the dead were also illuminated, Hertha etched in light beside Zerhalm, a well-built, bearded man between the elderly couple, and others, male and female, beside their kin. What Kel had meant by blurred was immediately obvious, for outlines were frayed, faces and fingers indistinct, clothing shapeless and grey — yet even as he watched they were sharpening, colour washing back into skirts, hair, and skin, detail reappearing, and features emerging as from fog or mist. The dead also seemed to stand taller, movements crisper and faces turned up slightly as they drank in the light. Kel had turned from the panel to consider them, and her smile was numinous, another joy to behold.

“As the Staff is dedicated to honest dealing and clarity, so by its light you are seen truly, and as the memorial preserves your memories, so through it the Staff can restore your wholeness. Your deaths were unjust and cannot be undone, but the other losses you have sustained are made good, and you are come home to find the Black God’s mercy infinite. Follow me now, and end your journey with all love and blessing.”

Taren’s eyes were damp, for they had never been her responsibility, dead before she rescued their kin, yet she had taken them as her own and cared for them even in death. She walked on to the second panel, then the third, and as the tale they told darkened, with Maggur’s assignment of Stenmun and Blayce and the horrors they brought and made, the Stafflight darkened too even as it intensified, becoming blood-hued and, though never ugly, disturbing at a visceral level. By the sixth panel, showing a complete killing device standing by a dead child, it also had an irregular pulse, flickering on surfaces and mottling Kel as much as the dead and their living kin. She seemed to look at it closely for a moment, searching for something before shrugging with what Taren thought was mostly satisfaction, and he wondered if she had sought any indication of Chaos but found none. But the thought was swept from his mind as she crossed the centre and came to the seventh panel, the first showing her, for in its light the Staff again flared dazzlingly, making her shadow stretch to the feet of watching gods and dragons, and panel by remaining panel the darkness and blood-hues retreated, erased by vibrant colour and shimmering grace. With the eleventh panel, showing Maggur’s defeat and death at New Hope, all the beauty of fire danced from the Staff, yellows, oranges, reds, and blazing white, as he had seen pour from dragons, and he heard their humming appreciation. Then Kel went to the last, and as the fingers of ordinary sunlight met the Firestone even the air seemed to join the glory and shadow evaporated as all shone.

For a moment Kel stood there, Staff held high, seeming to draw in light as the dead had ; then she turned to the western bridge and Taren again felt his breath hitch as his and Var’s mutual grip tightened, for at its end, beyond the memorial, a great archway rimmed in silver stood, and it was for once not filled with that grey swirl. The Black God stood beside it, and Lady Shakith’s hawk-scream rang out, but it was not the gods that had Taren’s heart thudding and aching in a body that suddenly felt hollow, for the archway was filled with figures — some he thought Rathhausakers, villagers in coarse woollens and linens, others who might be Tortallan refugees, in better but still rough clothing, a group of men in army maroon, a great warhorse, dogs with wagging tails, but above all children in their hundreds, some as old as Var, some barely able to walk, most looking between six and twelve, and all momently solemn as they regarded Kel and bowed to her, most with hands over hearts in the Scanran manner. Ruby light glittered on her tears as she bowed back with a grace so fluid and controlled Taren could not stop a sigh of wonder, then opened her arms to them as if she would embrace all to offer apology and comfort, sorrow and rue and relief, joy and safety.

How long it truly was Taren never knew for time seemed oddly suspended, rushing past somewhere else but barely moving at all where Kel stood, her gaze seeking every individual, those she must have known and those she could not have done, lingering longest on the men in maroon and some of the Tortallan civilians, but ever moving on to another ; and every gaze was returned with smiles and nods, and from the children often a shy wave drawing smiles from Kel, at first grave but slowly more open as a great burden was eased and there could be as little sorrow as there was shadow. At last she was done, and with a final bow to her forgiving dead she stood aside to clear the way to the bridge. The no longer sundered began to move, nodding to kin in farewell, bowing to Kel as they passed her and _smiling_ , benediction and release, before crossing the bridge to greet and be greeted by those they had known, and (Taren would later swear) thank those newmet who had died seeking to rescue their fellows. He had thought of the pain the living must endure at this strange second parting, not of the wait those safely with the Black God had suffered, but now children ran to parents and siblings, aunts and uncles, and they to children, clutching one another with open joy and tears of happiness. With the last soul across the bridge the scene grew less distinct, light beginning to fade, and Kel turned to bow deeply to the Black God, receiving a slow nod of approval and a hand raised in blessing and farewell before he stepped thought the archway and it vanished behind him. Tension drained away, and Taren found himself again breathing ordinary air in ordinary light, but knowing the world transformed.

With a deep breath Kel crossed the bridge herself, passing without a tremor where the way to the Peaceful Realm had stood open, even as she had once before, and circled to stand once more before the gods, and again bow deeply, addressing Lord Mithros.

“You have my most heartfelt thanks, my lord, and all High Ones, for that grace, and I pray you will convey them to your brother of death. The wrong done and suffered here was deep and long, but truly you have not stinted in your blessings today.”

Taren couldn’t say Lord Mithros bowed back, but he certainly inclined his head, and he was smiling.

“We too know sorrow, Protector, if not despair, and you earn your blessings the hard way, many times over.” Something flickered in the god’s face, that might have been amusement or mischief. “And as you did not seem much to care about holding the record for fastest siege, perhaps you might be better pleased to know you set a new and high mark in care of the wrongfully sundered. Many have held and hold the second grace of my brother of death, granted you at Aussonne, for as you know well he must ever be elsewhere, yet none has ever so sent them to their rest, so healed, and so remembered. That staff has absorbed power from more than sunbirds.”

“I know it, my lord.” Suddenly Kel grinned. “And you know it’s been exposed to enough with the spellcasting we get up to learning to combine magics. Would I be right to think the Timeway has also lent it power?”

“You would, Protector.” Lady Shakith cocked her head, hawk-fashion, blind eyes seeming to stare. “It was prophesied long ago, and the Timeway remembers, but it is your will that has shaped its purpose. It lit all three realms today even as you deal with them, honestly to a fault, and as generously, to your limits and beyond. And it will do so again, more than once, while your line runs true.”

Kel’s face was grave, and she nodded. “Long and longer may it do so then, my lady. And redundant as they may be, you have my thanks on Irnai’s behalf.”

“You care for my daughter well, and she flourishes in your love. I shall not leave her as she grows.”

Kel nodded again. “Good to know, my lady.”

Beyond Lady Shakith the Graveyard Hag gave one of her sniffs.

“Oh the sentiment’s just _oozing_.” She shook her head and her stick. “Even Da, you realise, dearie. You’ve got him going soft in his old age.”

Taren couldn’t see Kel’s face, turned to the Hag, but he could imagine an eyebrow rising.

“Have I, my lady? You should know. But I do believe I’d rather he grew old in a softer age.”

After a long moment Kel reached into a pocket, and offered the Hag a hankie. Lord Sakuyo looked joyous as a divine nose was loudly blown.

“Now you’ve got me at it, dearie. You’ll be selling me on another of your wretched scruples next.”

“Well, we can’t have that, can we? Come and look at the memorial instead? High Ones?”

“Lead on, daughter.” Lord Sakuyo stepped forward to take Kel’s arm, laughing only as a mortal might as the Hag stomped off, cane thumping the ground, and they followed with other gods behind. His voice was a murmur meant to carry. “Perhaps she’s more corrigible than I thought. And my estimation of myself as your teacher is rising all the time.”

The Hag’s stick thumped harder than ever.

“It’s delightful how two and two do so often make eleventy-three around you, my lord. And I’ve been meaning to ask you how you’d translate my little joke about His Nibs into Yamani. Keichii- _sensei_ was quite stumped, for His Brushtips really won’t do. I do know sable’s best, but acceptable calligraphy must be possible with those metal pens the Carthakis have started making. Might you encourage someone to try, so at least there _is_ a Yamani word for _nib_?”

What Lord Sakuyo replied Taren never did know, for Alanna had followed the gods, a purring constellation on her shoulder, and King Jonathan swept after her, Queen Thayet on his arm and his children in tow, with Clanchiefs behind him and King Lewis trailing them, one arm firmly around his son’s shoulders. Dom, Tobe, and others of the twenty-nine were also moving, and though no-one was talking an orderly line began to form, allowing gods time to consider each panel and its projection but crossing the eastern bridge as soon as space allowed. Taren, Sam, and Var inserted themselves behind General Vanget and Lord Ferghal, and whatever else Kel and the gods might have had to say to one another was private, but they did see Lord Weiryn rest a hand on Kel’s shoulder and the Green Lady embrace her briefly. Lord Sakuyo also took her free hand for a long moment, smiling and saying something that made Kel’s face soften before Lords Mithros and Diamondflame nodded at one another, silver flared, and the gods were gone — though the constellation remained on Alanna’s shoulder while she, Wuodan, and Dabeyoun conferred.

The departure set off mortal and immortal conversation, and though everyone was speaking softly the collective murmuring of wonder, grace, and geometry made it hard to hear anyone more than a few feet away. Taren didn’t mind, absorbed by the experience of the memorial and slightly hazy with euphoria and emotional exhaustion, as all were ; Chief Gella had been spot on about that. He was also trying to absorb the song of the Staff of Light, and the place of his uncertain impulse to give the Firestone to the Guild in the fulfilment — partly, at least — of ancient prophecy. He didn’t think one could say his father had walked with the gods, however they might have watched a man striding astray and said nothing, but he had himself been doing so well before he had had any inkling of it ; as Kel had done, in far greater measure. Reassessing memories where you had missed significance was galling as well as disconcerting, and he thought more kindly of Princess Shinkokami than for a while, until it occurred to him that he _hadn’t_ missed it completely, just not known what he heeded, and seeing her with Prince Roald slowly walking around the memorial, after passing out over the western bridge, he joined them and offered her the thought.

The conversation took a while, because there were moments she recalled that might fit such a bill, and Kel’s most recent exchange with Lord Mithros, with the grace that had poured forth despite it, had once again induced in her some very conflicting emotions. Prince Roald was not unsympathetic, but very struck by the idea that Kel counselled gods as she did her king, speaking truth to power, and as amused as bemused that she had offered the Graveyard Hag a hankie. That whole motif needed canvassing too, drawing in a dazed Blessed Matsuo, and Taren had a strong sense of the echoing patterns of comfort offered, as he had often staunched Var’s tears of sorrow and blown her nose in his faint echo of Kel’s far greater Protectorship, and Lord Sakuyo had staunched _her_ tears of joy and blown her nose after cathartic laughter.

With the sun westering, shadows lengthening but colours still raying from the panels, the visiting dragons departed, offering a general farewell and Kel warm thanks for some very interesting exercise, with many congratulations on once again commanding the fullest attention of three realms. She tracked them for a moment as they spiralled up, before dropping her gaze and shaking her head at Lord Jadewing.

“You know, my lord, thanking me for asking for hard and often rather menial exercise is one of Diamondflame’s sillier notions.”

 _Oh, I don’t know, Protector. It_ was _interesting, and exercise does us no more harm than it does the hounds. He was thanking you for your continuing education of the defeated Isolationists also. And it has caused much to happen we must all think on._

“Well, that’s true enough, my lord, and more than I was expecting. But we don’t need to do it here and now.” Her voice rose across the field once more. “As all of you and the fires are already here, Your Majesties, everyone, so is supper. We can watch the sun set over the memorial and find out what if any light of its own it might have. And how you celebrate the pure grace afforded us this day is your own business, but know we’ll be on the road very soon after dawn because the only thing left now is for everyone else to go home too.”


	11. Chapter Ten -- The Guildmasters' Conference

**Ten : The Guildmasters’ Conference**

_Corus, December 464 HE_

 

WAITING by the city gate with Sam, Taren was aware of the guards’ curiosity but was looking forward to their reactions too much to enlighten them. He had told them, truthfully, that their sister was travelling south with Countess Keladry, and having been parted from her for so long they were eager to see her again ; and when the sergeant cautiously asked if it was true that Lady Varia had become an apprentice of the Craftsbeings’ Guild, he had cheerfully confirmed it, adding with Sam a lengthy description of her apprentice project. He just hadn’t said anything about who else was travelling with Kel.

Nor had he shown them the beauty of the completed _kanji_ -house, as he might have done. The night before he and Sam had left New Hope, just after Sam turned eighteen, with all of them very conscious that when Var was working in Scanra, and they were back at Stone Mountain, they would be beyond the range of their small spellmirrors, Kel had shocked them all speechless by asking if they would each accept the care and education of a darking.

“There’s a fine line to tread”, she had said, after introducing them to Petal, Blue, and Silk. “They’ll tell you darkings know all darkings know, which is true, but when the knowledge is from sharing alone it has not always been quite understood. Having the knowledge — or having access to it, and I’ve never been sure which it is — seems to be a bit like having a library, which is wonderful but still needs reading. And as they do that, they have questions, and change as understanding accumulates. Now, quite what maturing means for a darking is moot, as there isn’t one older than thirteen and Ozorne just wanted their spying abilities, but there does seem to be an increasing ability to share more fully and more, um, usefully annotated experiences, and I suspect that individual and collective growth, while closely linked, will prove distinct.”

Taren still remembered his chagrin at not having seen it before, for after weeks at New Hope he knew perfectly well that darkings had been created by Ozorne during his brief time as a stormwing, in 451–2, but had never thought through the implications of being a new kind of immortal, nor seen that Kel’s recruitment of them to the Guild was a way of undoing Ozorne’s evil, much as she sought to undo Maggur’s.

“So there are some interesting questions”, she had continued. “These three and a dozen or so more, among the oldest who came, are ready for a further step, and they all asked about you particularly because they think memorials are fun.”

“Fun!” Blue had agreed, nodding its tiny head vigorously. “Beautiful. Useful. Fun.”

Those weren’t Taren’s first choice of adjectives but he couldn’t disagree, and Kel had laughed.

“I know. I should do a darking memorial tea-house.” Taren couldn’t stop a smile. “Just remember it’s an all-purpose term of approval. Anyway, from your point-of-view, besides contact with Var, it will let us keep in touch even when I’m away from New Hope’s spellmirrors, and give you a means of seeking Barzha’s advice if you need it. Or Quenuresh’s, or Var’istaan’s. And from my point-of-view, your various plans offer an opportunity. Var will be doing something new with a pilgrim path and architecture, and you’re off to new places, including several I’ve never seen, nor any darking, so you’ll be adding to their experience. They’re also curious about overlordship, Tar, and how fiefs other than New Hope work, and for their own safety as well as the Guild’s purposes it would be good to further their knowledge of Tortall and its people. But this is where it gets tricky. I’ve told you about needing to keep the king’s greedy hands off, and making it clear darkings’ business is communication, not spying, but there’s more and worse than Jonathan who’ll cast covetous eyes. And because they’re small, and in themselves vulnerable, some will be tempted to try darkingnapping, even though the whole point is that any darking can tell every other darking exactly where it is. I don’t want to have to stage any rescues, though, so while it’ll be your calls, I’ll ask all of you to be wary about whom you allow to know you have a darking with you. The temptation is to use them to show things, as you did, Tar, rightly, with Jorvik and Ragnar, and there would be nothing wrong with letting your mother and aunt see some of the things you’ve seen. Nor your father, come to that, and if you do I’d appreciate the tale. But think twice and again before showing others, eh? Need, certainly, and true occasion, but nothing much idler.”

Then she had both grinned and shrugged.

“And yet the whole point is to get people used to them, and thinking about them as beings with a great deal to offer, not tools or servants. Still, caution is wiser for a while yet, I think. The Guild managers will take some when they’re done training, but that’s a more official assignment, and though good geographically, more limited in that they’ll all be doing much the same thing. Mindelan doesn’t need more just now, though in a while quite a few will go there to work with the fishing and trade fleets. Ferghal and Vanget have one each, as do Jorvik and Ragnar, but those are for pressing political reasons as well as my own ends. Yuki has one so she can be available about pickles if needed, and Neal and Baird, to learn healing, so wherever there’s a darking there should also be real medical knowledge. And I shall try to press one on Wyldon if I ever see the dratted man. But I’ll be very happy to know you three have one each.”

Keenly conscious of honour, trust, and boon, they had faced a sharp learning curve in discovering what was and wasn’t practical. Letters read by darking display were a great deal faster than trying to relay long and complex speech, and questions darkings asked were often disconcerting, exposing mortal assumptions as much as gaps in their own understanding, but for all of them nightly sight and news of one another was a great blessing ; and darkings could show directly what letters could only describe, so he and Sam had, on their travels and after returning to Stone Mountain in late September, seen Var’s designs unfold in reality.

With the girls’ graves she had stuck strictly to her minimal Pilgrims’ Path, but given what the path was to lead to, wayhouses and even latrine blocks had along its way shifted from Tortallan-inflected to Yamani-inflected design, though always within a style that proclaimed Guild architecture. Natural beauty was taken advantage of, not interfered with, so the situations of wayhouses and views from their messhalls and terraces were often enchanting, and where greater intervention was called for it too was always aesthetic as well as functional. At the steep sill the path forked and two elegant rock ramps angled up to meet at a natural perron, allowing faster and more winded pilgrims not to inconvenience one another ; and the climb to the hanging valley had stayed where it was with the steeper section given shallow steps — which made a cutting unavoidable, but also meant that the view of the _kanji_ -house as you reached the top was a sudden and moving revelation.

Master Geraint had supervised construction, and despite his hair-tearing Var had insisted its shape must be that of a brush-drawn character, meaning tapering widths and the slight thickening and flourish at the ends of strokes. What persuaded him in the end was the additional window frontage it gave the messhall, facing the waterfall and the rainbows spray frequently offered, but once it was done he’d openly praised Var’s vision and agreed the extra trouble was not only worth it but superbly right. On the ground it lent a subtle oddity and power to the clean lines of basilisk-cut ashlar, and from the top of the climb to the hanging valley it made the whole, despite its radical oddity, seem more natural than artificial — a notion both Var and Lord Sakuyo had helped along by providing turfed rooves that, during the night after Kel dedicated the building (on Var’s sixteenth birthday), became covered in tiny white flowers that seemed to take no notice whatever of the season. The _kanji_ — and all it represented — stood out in silvery white against the lush greens of grass profiting from the waterfall, framed by flowerbeds and scrub trees, and at the viewing-place a neatly carved and petrified sign (on which Var also insisted) explained what _sui_ meant in Tortallan, Scanran, and Common, attributing the inspiration to Lord Taren of Stone Mountain. He had tried his best to dissuade Var, who only smiled irritatingly, and Kel had been no help at all, saying credit was due where it was due, and truth always the wiser course.

As Stone Mountain had been calling, he and Sam had not dawdled on their travels — visiting Mindelan and Frasrlund before heading west, via a last meeting with Var and Kel at Dragonstown, to a day in the City of the Gods, relaying events at Rathhausak in a deepening silence ; a week in haMinchi lands, getting to know Lord Ferghal better and encountering a vastly improved Prince Loup ; and a passage down the Drell as swift as stopping at each fief and chartered independent settlement allowed. They had been home by the time of the dedication, and Taren had had to explain his idea to his avid mother and Aunt Lily, as well as an intrigued Svein. That in turn had meant explaining what the memorial to the girls was about in the first place, and the decision to ask Blue and Silk to show what Unferth had wrought, how he had died, and the grace that had poured from Kel’s hands marked a new understanding in how double-edged the potency of darking witness could be. Both women had prospered, in the absence of his father and uncle, and in Svein’s courteous care, and were immeasurably stronger than he had left them ; but seeing what he and Sam had seen both went alarmingly white, shocked nausea battling shocked wonder. Yet with a little time to digest it, they had been grateful for what they called his trust — another poser — and that experience, with sight of Drachifethe and the divine manifestations at New Hope, Aussonne, and Rathhausak, had made them fervent supporters of his plans for a _substantial_ new temple.

With Svein, in private, he had been able to speak of things he had not told the women, including his deep ambivalence about his sense of having so often only tagged along, doing nothing, and received unexpected assurances that everyone starting out felt some version of that. Svein was also full of probing and very thought-provoking questions, not so much about gods or dragons, though they figured, as about Lord Biron, the pressure on Princess Lianne to marry Prince Loup as a safeguard for commercial and other interests the prince’s former idiocy would have imperilled, and the extent of the education Kel had forcibly provided to King Lewis and his chosen advisors. The business of side-channels and the Vassa and Drell trades also intrigued him, and as Hannalof had legitimate interests in the latter Taren was happy to answer all he could, while pointing out that Erde and Ortien had fuller briefs, so Hannalof himself should be up to date. The meeting also gave him a chance to present the centaur-made saddle, with his profound thanks for all Svein had done, only to find himself not only thanked in turn but considered with a gravity that was almost unnerving.

“You know, my lord, I’ve enjoyed this assignment, and learned more than I expected, which is always welcome, and some of it very useful besides. But I confess I rather thought you were just finding your feet and clearing some slates. Now, though, I begin to wonder if allowing you the freedom to sojourn at New Hope wasn’t the very best service I could possibly have offered Tortall.” Taren had received a crooked grin. “If you haven’t noticed it yet, Lady Kel’s teaching seems to have included the inspiration of loyalty. Or perhaps she just makes us mortals grow as swiftly as she does immortals.”

Taren had had no answer, but carried the thought with him when, after some mulling, he had in late October gone to visit his father at the hunting lodge high on wooded slopes that Lords of Stone Mountain had always kept as a family chase. His note of warning had provoked an immediate reply, observing curtly that Lord Burchard had not retreated in order to be disturbed, and his arrival had been greeted with angry disdain for his disregard of orders ; slightly numb with dismay and thoroughly irritated, but banking both with an effort, he had dismounted, politely dismissed his escort and the two older servants who had been willing to see to his father’s needs, and faced the man who had so cruelly shaped his life.

“Sir, in so far as a son owes a father respect and obedience, I try to offer them. But when the Lord of Stone Mountain is charged to deliver a message to Lord Burchard, he will do so, whatever Lord Burchard thinks he wants.”

His tone actually produced a flicker of grudging approval, for Lords of Stone Mountain were not to be gainsaid, but it was followed by words that slid towards a sneer.

“There is no-one I want to hear from.”

“Even Lord Mithros?” And before his father could react Taren had started the gods’ circle. “I, Taren of Stone Mountain, do swear by all gods that I have spoken to Lord Mithros, and from his own lips heard the words _and tell your father that …_ ”

As he completed the gesture chimes had rung, sweet and clear, and for his father loud enough to have him clapping hands to ears, though Taren had not been inconvenienced, and murmured appreciative thanks.

“Now, I could just tell you what Lord Mithros said, and if you continue so foolishly I might, but without context that would be neither kind nor helpful, which the High One was being, in a godly sort of a way. So let’s go somewhere comfortable, and I’ll bring you a bit more up to date about what the gods have been doing while you pray and stew here.”

And so he had, with Blue’s willing aid — a preamble about seeking Kel’s countenance as advised, and some views of New Hope that had his father frowning, before focusing on the major manifestations. Unferth had his use, for that image twisted Burchard’s face with horror before he stared at the Black God’s grace as a baby might a breast ; while Aussonne had Taren speaking into a shocked hush, even when he relayed Lord Mithros’s message, that making the memorial and the vouchsafe of the dead children’s contentment offered to Kel only deepened. When he was done he had sat back, reclaiming Blue, and considered his father.

“So, as you see, sir, I have heeded your last command, and learned to walk with the gods — who are not as you and many suppose them. And you learn further that Lord Mithros neither abandons you nor despairs of your improvement. Your prayers and conscience are your own, and in the matter of quality and quantity I take no action. In the matter of actions and words, however, I find I agree with the High One that occupying a superior hermitage is insufficient, and it is my command that you seriously consider what else you might do that the gods would find worthier. In the meanwhile, I require of you two things that will help you to focus. The first is that you resume proper weapons training, a half-hour morning and evening, and I will station a guard here as a sparring partner, rotating the appointment so you may both practice familiar and learn new weapons. You remain a knight of Tortall, and but for Countess Keladry’s astonishing intervention Lord Biron’s stupidity would have landed us in a Gallan war, so you will live up to that status however you have abandoned all other. And the second is that while you dwell here you will, for one day a week, engage, in scrupulous courtesy, with the foresters, huntsmen, and kennelmasters who maintain this chase, and send me a quarterly report on how it fares and anything that needs my attention. Your word on both, sir, now.”

How much had been shock and how much genuine acquiescence Taren still wasn’t sure, but the word was given, and his father’s pride would hold him to it. He had taken a certain pleasure in including among the rotating guards some of Vesker’s men, skilled after New Hope with slings and staff, and learning the glaive ; there was also considerably more happening at the kennels than his father would have expected, for the project to breed scenthounds for mine rescue was underway, with Lords Wyldon, Dagal of Lisbethan, and others contributing stock and keenly interested in results. If their letters to Lord Burchard had occasioned further surprise, they nevertheless put him in renewed contact with men most would call conservative, and even he would acknowledge as peers. Sam had clapped his shoulder, better pleased he had got through the meeting than anything else, but when he had told Var, holding up a letter for Petal to show her, Silk had squeaked from Sam’s shoulder that _Var say, Kel teach well_  ; and that had pleased him better, for he was indeed attempting the redemption she had made him believe possible.

For his uncle there would be none. Denial of alcohol had reduced him to a shell, movements more tremor than purpose, and conversation, such as it was, inane and confused. The hate was gone, or at least in abeyance, but nothing had taken its place, and it struck Taren that, much as his father had walked away from the world when no longer able to deny it, his uncle had so drowned himself to avoid facing truth that there was very little of him left. Apathetic and underwashed, Henchard had already had a bout of lung-sickness it had taken the healers hard efforts to fend off, and Taren quietly told them not to challenge any further the course of nature. The Black God would be a more merciful host than he could be himself, and Kel’s training induced an awareness of when losses might be cut, and higher authorities invoked.

After that visit Var’s doings had, as always, been a welcome distraction. She had moved on from the girls’ graves to the Pakkai road, rendered almost unrecognisable by basilisks and ogres, and now equipped with regular wayhouses and latrine blocks. No Rathhausakers had wanted to return to the Pakkai valley, but knowing it cleansed of haunting, and set fair to prosper as, if not quite a shrine, still a place of pilgrimage, the illegal settlers, once of Clan Beorhtscyld, had leaped at it, forming the nucleus of a new settlement, renamed Hléodréam for the joy Kel had known in receiving the children’s grace. Village and mill had been spruced up, with additional houses, a substantial inn, and a more austere wayhouse stretching towards the ford. The hulked killing devices were gone, melted down with others in Stone Mountain’s furnaces, and though the site itself remained a little raw, grass and wildflowers were spreading happily across barer earth, carefully transplanted when renewed tillage of the village fields began, and had become profuse in the once cleared zone, their colours complementing the glow of the panels and shining white of the memorial — which, Var told him in a wondering letter held up to Petal, seemed to be keeping itself clean, free of all soil and stain.

And people were going to see it. Only hardier pilgrims made the climb to the graves, and those who didn’t were the more determined to do what they could, while those who did saw no reason not to make a clean sweep of it, so inn and wayhouse were doing brisk business. There was also, Var had observed thoughtfully in a regular letter, a cumulative effect that began with the Pilgrims’ Way, climbing from the coast towards the wonders of New Hope, then moving on to the pulsing colours of Drachifethe, rich simplicities of the _kanji_ -house, and astonishment of the memorial, that _worked_ on pilgrims in a way most felt, though few could articulate — a timeline of work and grace that seemed to pare down to the heart of something, yet was as circular as linear ; and yet again a finality, moving from the need for Hléoburh, countering Rathhausak’s threat, to Hléodréam, made from its stone and sealed by every realm. The idea of memorials as a sequence rather than isolated things interested Taren sharply, and he had been amused to learn from Kel during a spellmirror conversation that King Lewis had ordered Aussonne _not_ to rebuild its walls, alter the basilisk-way through the fallen barbican, or do anything about _le Pendu Pierreux_ except heed it carefully, and, after instating one of his better army commanders as the fief’s new lord, had been sending his nobles to see for themselves.

“I don’t think you can call it pilgrimage”, Kel had observed, smiling, “but it’s bringing the new lord some income as well as silencing those who think a stronger response would have been in order. And talking of income, the silver ore at Smiskir Junction is proving very rich, with quite a lot of gold too, which is going to be useful.” The smile had faded. “Less cheerfully, Wuodan and Frige found the killer in the late queen’s household, a steward answering to the Duc du Nord, and helped a priest of the Black God to release the sundered, so that’s dealt with. They said pointing the guilty was satisfying, but the whole was a sordid mortal mess — the steward was supposed to procure Loup a woman, and did, but panicked when she fell pregnant, perhaps deliberately, perhaps paid to do so by someone, and it spiralled. It hadn’t struck me before that Tortall’s fortunate not to have royal bastards, but we are.”

It hadn’t struck Taren either, but he and Sam had since talked of it several times, for there had been philandering kings as recently as Baird the Roisterer, less than a century back, tending to disputes and grief, but Jasson’s several half-brothers had not long survived his accession, and for three generations there had been only legitimate royal children. He had wondered too about an elder ordering a woman procured, and how Joren had fared in that regard, caught between his father’s austerities, his uncle’s immorality, and the violence of Vinson, but soon decided he’d rather not know ; though he did find himself thereafter thinking rather improperly of Lianne, who had by all accounts silenced any criticism of her self-removal from the royal marriage mart in a very imperious manner, and had yet to visit Stone Mountain, but had greeted him warmly and a little shyly when he and Sam had paid their respects at the palace. With his mother and aunt to see to, both pleased to travel but nervous about their reception, there had been neither time nor place for more, but he knew there was a question to answer.

He was recalled from his memories by the arrival of a breathless soldier from the Outer North Gate.

“Protector’s party’s a mile out, sarge, and there’re dragons!”

The sergeant blinked. “Dragons? Lady Kawit, you mean?”

“Nah, an _enormous_ green one and at least four Kawit’s size.”

Schooling his expression, Taren nodded. “It will be Lord Jadewing, the ambassador, and the Journeydragons, sergeant.”

“Ambassador, my lord?”

“Yes, but of the Dragonmeet to the Mortal Realm, not to His Majesty, so while he’s properly _His Excellency_ , no formal protocol is required.”

“Well, there’s a relief.” The sergeant didn’t quite dare to glare at him, but came pleasingly close. “And the others, my lord?”

“Journeybeings journey, sergeant. The four will be Ladies Starcrest and Opaleyes, with Lords Sharpclaw and Longtail. They gained their rank at Samradh, and are taking advantage. Master Numair and the Wildmage have come, so Lady Skysong will be there too. Oh, and Lady Icefall, who is still an apprentice but as Lord Jadewing’s daughter is allowed beyond New Hope by his let.”

“You seem uncommonly well-informed, my lord.”

“I try, sergeant.” Sam grinned. “And I have some hopes of Lord Jadewing’s visit.”

Taren got back a deeply suspicious look, and watched with appreciation as the sergeant made sure men and gateway alike were spruced and proper. In the way of the Lower City, a crowd was beginning to gather and chatter, aware something was up if not what, and as word of dragons percolated a certain tension became apparent. That was one reason he and Sam were here, and pitching their conversation to be audible they remarked to one another how gentle a giant Lord Jadewing was, how exceptionally helpful he had been in recovering the dead at Rathhausak and giving unstinting labour to the creation of the memorial, and how devoted to his daughter Lady Icefall, the youngest dragon apprentice bar Lady Skysong, and not wrongly known as Scamp. This time the sergeant’s look was quite approving, and the atmosphere lightened again, until a squad of fighting ogres emerged at the far end of the bridge, and after a moment deployed two to stop anyone from crossing while the rest jogged across. Taren stepped forward.

“Greetings, Moriaju. You’ve travelled safely?”

“We have, Lord Taren, thank you. It’s just whether the bridge will bear Lord Jadewing that’s doubtful.”

“Of course. Sergeant Bentor here commands the duty guard. Sergeant, Moriaju is second in Countess Keladry’s ogre troop.”

“Sergeant.”

“Second, uh, Moriaju.”

“I apologise for acting directly, but His Excellency Lord Jadewing will need to lift himself magically so he doesn’t break the bridge, and that means he’ll want a clear spot to land and pass the gate. Lady Kel sent us to make sure no-one gets in the way. Or squashed.”

“Ah. Right. Not squashed is good.” The sergeant glanced at Taren and sensibly cut his losses. “Do carry on, Second Moriaju.”

“Just Moriaju is fine, sergeant.”

Taren and Sam made sure they were visible beside Moriaju as he emerged from the gateway into open view, and joined him and his fellows, with the guards, in politely asking people to clear some space for Lord Jadewing, adding that he would make as much more for himself as he needed but the more he had to begin with the less disconcerting it would be for everyone. The looks they got were entertaining, but as Kel understood well ogres were not easy to argue with and the crowd did good-naturedly shuffle back, up Palace Way and along Wall Street. Nor did they have to wait long, and though few could see, as Taren and Sam did, Lord Jadewing emerge from a ripple of houses at the far side of the bridge, peer at it with some curiosity, and cross it in a single floating bound, all saw the barbican abruptly bulge upwards and sideways like an overfilled waterbag, subsiding as the immensity of green dragon came clear amid a shocked silence. Taren and Sam stepped forward, bowing, and then looked up.

“Your Excellency Lord Jadewing, in the name of King Jonathan II Conté and Queen Thayet jian Wilima, be welcome to Corus.” Taren looked further up to an excited bundle of white on Lord Jadewing’s back. “And you, Lady Icefall. You have travelled safely?”

_We have, Taren of Stone Mountain. It is good to see you again._

“And to see you, my lord.”

 _Greetings, Taren and Saman. Corus is_ very  _big. Why are all these people here? Is something happening?_

Taren grinned. “You are arriving, my lady.”

_Oh. Can I get down, Papa?_

_Yes, but you must stay close, Icefall._

_I will._

And without further ado the dragonet bounced off her father’s back, using the hovering spell to slow her descent, to land by Taren and Sam.

“You’re very good at that spell, my lady, but we should move on a little, so Kel and the others can come through.”

_Of course. Did you hear, Papa?_

Lord Jadewing had, and ambled forward, drawing the rest of his tail through the gate and bulging some houses aside — but with the journeydragons, more ogres, Kel with Dom, Tobe, and Irnai surrounded by her Clanchief’s Guard, and a full building-team all coming through the gate no-one was sure what to stare at first. For Taren and Sam the problem was moot, because Var had dismounted and thrown herself into a heartfelt embrace, and by the time they’d disentangled themselves Kel was greeting the crowd and naming dragons to them, with senior ogres and Guardsmen, Master Geraint, and leaders of the building-team.

“They’ll all be about for several months on Guild business, and for most it’s a first visit to Corus, so they’re curious. Be helpful and polite, please, and you’ll find they’re helpful and polite back. I can’t imagine anyone will be silly enough to cause trouble, but if someone has a real issue, come straight to me — and spread that word to all, please. And so you all know, Lord Jadewing is the ambassador of the Dragonmeet to the Mortal Realm, here to observe the building-team, who are doing a nice round temple for Lord Sakuyo and the new College of Weapons in the Palace Enclosure, while the journeybeings are here to learn generally, and attend the Council of Guilds meeting.”

She broke off as Bonedancer came flapping down Palace Way to circle Lord Jadewing alarmingly and glide to a perch on Kel’s shoulder, clattering its beak in welcome. Kel grinned and gave its bony head a rub.

“Hello to you too, Bonedancer. You remember Lord Jadewing, I expect.” The fossil preened at her, and she swung her attention out to the crowd again. “It’s all new, I know, and dragons _are_ disconcerting, as they should be, but given Bonedancer you really can’t say it’s much stranger than you’re already used to, eh? Oh, and we’ve brought mail, so anyone with kin or friends at New Hope can check with Sergeant Landor, riding with the pack-horses. He’ll see what isn’t collected now delivered in the next day or two, or folk can find him at the Own’s barracks.”

Taren wasn’t persuaded that being used to Bonedancer was much of a preparation for dragons, but no-one was arguing, the potential for panic had been averted, and as he and Sam warmly greeted Kel, Dom, and the children the crowd was tipping into an almost festival atmosphere. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Kel greet the rather ugly man he’d seen before with Mrs Weaver, the crowd giving them a respectfully wide berth while staring intently, before introducing him to Lord Jadewing, and abruptly realised who the man must be. The good cheer was sustained as they all started up Palace Way, not least by Lady Icefall’s chattering questions and Lord Jadewing’s or Kel’s patient replies, and even the rippling distentions of space on either side caused no more than comic dismay. Var was leading her horse so she could talk to him and Sam, and he was half-absorbed in what she was saying, but noticed how many people Kel greeted, and the effect of her name and presence, as much as any dragon’s. Saving Aussonne, it was the first time he’d seen her outside her fief, but her authority did not seem any less, nor the impact of her power, and if there was something of the way any ruling noble carried title and stature with them, there was a distinct charge that was hers alone and made him think of the way events constellated around her ; of that extraordinary balance that made her seem the still point of the turning world wherever she went. He had in any case been looking forward to events since this plan had been hatched, and appreciated the way Kel had not said Lord Jadewing was also here for the Council of Guilds meeting, but he had been so tickled by imagining what the still squabbling and obstructive Council would make of the dragon he had somehow neglected properly to add an increasingly impatient Kel to the equation, and his anticipation ratcheted up. The obstructers might last longer than the walls of Aussonne, but he didn’t think it would be by much, and Var broke off, staring at his grin.

“What?”

He gestured at Kel, saying something to Lady Icefall. “Funfunfun.”

 

* * * * *

 

The Council of Guilds was not, by Tortallan standards, an especially venerable body, having been formally established only in Jasson’s reign, when that energetic king became impatient with guild disputes eating into his time and ordered them to set up their own clearing-house. From his point of view it had worked well enough, Taren supposed, and the history books tended to treat it as a logical extension of the council systems that had already existed for nobles and army, but a nearer truth was that the then-guildmasters had realised they could use it to anchor their personal powers in Corus even while Jasson’s conquests, north and south, expanded the area in which their guilds enjoyed royally chartered monopolies. What they had done with their greatly increased profits was evident in the Council’s very handsome building on Palace Way, created by buying out three adjacent premises owned by member guilds and clearing the entire site for an ashlar mansion in the old Thanic style, engaged columns and pilasters beneath an impressive pediment ; and as Taren now understood very well, there was a direct and reciprocal relationship between that opulence and the poverty of the north.

New Hope and the Craftsbeings’ Guild were beginning to make real inroads into the historic injustice, and with the king declining to hear any challenge to their monopoly on anything involving immortals the Council had had to lump it. The tainted Metalworkers and Smiths were still in internal disarray, but their representatives had inertly continued to support the present chair of the Council, Masterglassblower Norist, who deeply resented basilisk glass and was largely responsible for the strategy — if you could call it that — of maximal obstruction. The idea seemed to be that pointed failure to co-operate with the Craftsbeings would somehow oblige them to make concessions, though as Olimiaju had remarked it was far more detrimental to other guilds, who knew it, and were becoming restive, but lacked anyone to stand up to Norist. The journeyogre had also told him with an appreciative smile that Mrs Weaver had spoken for many lower- and middle-ranking guildsmen when she had very publicly remarked of Master Norist that she couldn’t abide to see a grown man sulking, never mind him being so rude to Lady Kel, and after all she’d done for Corus. Olimiaju had himself done a great deal to undermine Norist, talking widely to guildsmen of all ranks as well as guildmasters and allaying fear while pointing out that there were advantages to becoming less greedily centred in Corus, for if guild branches elsewhere were to become more privileged relative to the capital, so too would those who ran such branches.

All in all, therefore, and even before Kel had arrived in such style, there was unusually widespread anticipation of the quarterly meeting of the full Council that fell in the week preceding the start of Midwinter and the Queen’s Ball. After her arrival speculation intensified, especially as people noted that when she gave Lord Jadewing and other immortals visiting Corus for the first time a tour of the city, she included a score of guilds as well as the Protector’s Maids’ shops and more obvious landmarks, and so spoke to many guildmasters and senior members. Even so, when the several hundred people who happened to find themselves on Palace Way when Council members were due for the meeting saw who was coming a hush spread, and not only for Lord Jadewing — King Jonathan was there, with the Queen and Crown Couple, accompanied by Dukes Turomot and Gary, Sir Alanna, Lord Wyldon, other courtiers, and a flock of curious ambassadors. Erik Hrothgarsson was among them, not bothering to conceal his amusement at the full Clanchief’s Guard who had insisted on accompanying Kel, nominally for security and because any opponent, even a glassblower, should know what he or she was dealing with, though in truth they were as full of anticipation as everyone else.

It all made for a crowd larger than the Council’s usual meeting-room could hold, even with the gallery that circled the room jammed to overflowing, but that issue became moot as Lord Jadewing entered and created considerably more space than he needed. As the formal agenda included an objection to Var’s membership of the Craftsbeings, alleging that nobles could not be guild members, Taren had reserved seats in the front row, and gently insisted that his mother and aunt come along ; but many found themselves giving way to the royal party, and had to stand in awkward rows along the great crescent of space that accommodated the dragon. He noted with interest that Mrs Weaver, with her husband and the rather ugly man who had to be the Rogue, had no difficulty finding chairs. Master Norist, seated at the head of the rectangle of tables scowled displeasure, and though he didn’t dare glare at Lord Jadewing or the royals he made up for it with everyone else, especially Scanrans. As Kel took her place, Lady Skysong and Journeyogre Olimiaju flanking her with Guards behind, and was deferentially greeted by the Masterweaver and Masterdraper, on either side, the glare settled on her.

“Is all this nuisance necessary, Guildmistress?”

The nominal honorific was a sneer, and Kel considered him.

“That’s Guildmaster, Master Norist. We pay no heed to the sex of the office-holder. And I find it curious to characterise the attendance of guild-members you are supposed to represent as a ‘nuisance’. Unless you meant Their Majesties, Royal Highnesses, Graces, and Excellencies?”

“These armed men are not guild-members, and you need no guard here. It is a gross provocation to bring them.”

“Is it, Master Norist? Besides their attendance on me as Clanchief Hléoburh being mandated by Scanran law and custom, I seem to recall surviving an assassination attempt on Palace Way, not so far from here, only two-and-some years ago, and a Clanchief’s Guardsmen are not at all keen on saying things like ‘but we thought it would be safe’.” Kel had been speaking conversationally, but her voice hardened. “And in point of fact, all my Guardsmen are guild-members, as I have previously informed this Council, in the last amendment to the Craftsbeings’ roll. Tell me, Master Norist, is your memory often as faulty as your manners?”

Norist went a nasty colour, and in the silence Taren saw the king settle contentedly back in his seat with a faint smile and an air of expectation. Kel graciously waved a hand.

“Well, no matter now, though perhaps we should give thought to relieving you of the duties you find so troublesome. In the meantime, perhaps we might get on with business?”

Taren hadn’t thought Norist’s colour could get nastier, but an attitude much more like the king’s was spreading around the table, and Norist grudgingly called the meeting to order. His attempt at a further delay by slowly reading aloud minutes of the last meeting was brusquely challenged by the Whitesmiths, and they were accepted by vote, leaving him no choice but to proceed to the first item — a dispute between the Coopers and Brewers about a sizeable batch of barrels the Brewers swore had been made of very green wood, resulting in unacceptable spillage and taint. The Coopers denied it vehemently, and as their guildmaster spoke Kel and Lady Skysong sat straighter, looking at him hard. The Mastercooper fell silent, shifting in his seat, Kel raised a hand, and after a moment Master Norist grated an acknowledgement.

“Guildmistress?”

Taren couldn’t see Kel’s face but the look she gave Norist made the man swallow.

“I strongly advise you not to address me incorrectly again, Master Norist. What matters, though, is that for one and another reason I tend to hear lies quite clearly these days, as Lady Skysong does also, and if we have no immediate resolution here I would suggest to Masterbrewer Kailin that on behalf of his members who suffered loss he bring suit against the Coopers to be heard in the presence of griffins. Of course, he might then find the Coopers more eager to reach a settlement.”

“Oh might I just?” The Masterbrewer rubbed thick hands. “Court, eh? Thank you, Guildmaster. I expect we’ll be able to learn where that green wood grew too, and how it came to be used when plainly unfit.”

“Surely, Guildmaster. Though as the whole purpose of this Council is to avoid guild disputes clogging royal administration, including the court, which is not sitting today, nor on any of the days we are scheduled to meet, it would make more sense in future to ask the griffins to attend. I’ve checked, they’re willing, and I so propose. Second me?”

“Happily. Proposal seconded. A vote, please, Master Norist.”

The glassblower stared. “Have you lost your mind, Kailin? We can’t decide something like that without proper discussion.”

“You find it hard to decide if members of this Council should be able to lie, Master Norist?” Kel’s voice held a thread of amusement. “Do please tell me what the arguments in favour are.”

“I … we … griffins are dangerous!”

“Of course they are, Master Norist. They’re lions, eagles, and immortal mages, so I should hope they were. But perhaps you could explain why they are safe enough for the King’s Justice, but not for ours.” Kel turned. “I don’t believe His Grace of Wellam has had any problems with their attendance.”

The old man stood and gave a very short nod to Master Norist before answering Kel. “Besides the initial shock, not one, my lady. They have been a great blessing to justice, and to all save liars.”

“Thank you, Your Grace. So I had understood. Does anyone else have a reason we should be able to lie? No? Then your caution seems practically as well as morally misplaced, Master Norist.” There was a certain flatness in Kel’s repeated vocatives, but her voice eased as her address widened. “It’s true that young griffins can be a very irritating handful, but adults are honourable to the bone, however haughty. And as no-one wants to be cheated, they really are a boon — far better for all to be safe from being cheated than to remain vulnerable in the hope of cheating, don’t you think? It would of course fall to Masterfishmonger Yaril” — Kel nodded to him — “to requite their services here, but as he already deals with them on behalf of the court, and the cost will hardly dent the Council’s funds, I hope he would not be unwilling.”

“Not in the least, Guildmaster. Delighted to, in fact. I vote in favour.”

So did others, and Taren tallied votes with acute interest, seeing the balance shift. Norist was opposed, of course, and the Smiths and Metalworkers followed him, if with very unhappy looks ; the Coopers were also predictably against, and the Miners abstained, but while Taren thought several others were more equivocal than keen, they had also measured Norist against Kel, noted the support she had from Weavers, Drapers, Fishmongers, Butchers (dragons were _excellent_ business), Brewers, Wheel- and Wainwrights ( _very_ happy with the promise of improved roads), Farriers, and Whitesmiths, not to mention Goldsmith-Bankers, and decided they’d rather be on the winning side whatever they thought. Inviting griffins to attend all subsequent meetings passed by a large majority, Norist looked sourer than ever, and Kel nodded.

“Excellent. I shan’t be here most of the time, of course, but Journeyogre Olimiaju can communicate with the griffins by darking or in Old Thak, so he’ll make the necessary arrangements and liaise about fish.” She gave the table a pleasant smile. “For some, of course, being unable to lie or bluster takes a little getting used to, but as it makes for far greater efficiency as well as honesty I’ve found that after a while no-one worth listening to is repining. On we go.”

There was an interesting taste of what Kel meant as several further disputes on the agenda evaporated, the various parties to them finding that they had, perhaps, unfortunately become rather entrenched, naturally so in defending their members’ interests, and were sure that if they and their opponents were to meet privately a mutually beneficial compromise could be found. Taren observed that neither Dom, Tobe, and Irnai, nor the king and queen, nor Mr and Mrs Weaver and the Rogue were troubling to conceal unholy amusement, while Alanna looked like a cat surveying well-cooked mice in a rich cream sauce ; His Grace of Wellam and Lord Wyldon had their usual austere expressions, but their eyes were glinting — as were Kel’s Scanran Guards’ — and Duke Gary was looking quizzically pleased. What his mother and aunt made of it he couldn’t be sure, but both were wide-eyed at Kel’s compelling exercise of authority, which was what he had anticipated and wanted. Immortals were much harder to read, even for Taren, but he’d bet their stillness was appreciative, all the same, and he could feel Blue’s intent concentration.

The swift despatch of successive items of business was in itself a defeat for Master Norist : all matters concerning the Craftsbeings were at the bottom of the agenda, and though Taren doubted even Norist could seriously have hoped not to reach them, he had certainly intended them to come up only when everyone was already tired and wishing to be done, making further postponement of anything he could make controversial an attractive option. His own poor strategy was working against him, though, for even without the promise of griffins in future the Council’s long delays and prevarications had left member guilds with many unresolved difficulties, and sensing the sea-change Kel was bringing they were keen to secure any resolutions that had wanted only will, and open to some rough-and-ready horsetrading if others would meet them half-way. Kel said little for a while, though her two interventions both enabled agreements — the Farriers jumping at her offer to broker training-courses with centaurs in return for a fee in barter paid to Herdmaster Whitelist plus a nominal rent for accommodation at New Hope, and so willing to concede to the Wainwrights a reduction in certain fees for the care of horses used in testing new wagons ; and the Whitesmiths equally keen on places for journeymen at the Craftsbeings’ magical seminar, to see what cross-species magic might do with tin, and very happy in consequence to drop a request for cross-guild placements for which the Metalworkers and Smiths had been asking exorbitant payment — much to the dismay of both. After a glance at Kel Olimiaju also sliced decisively across an acrimonious dispute between Mercers and Drapers, over the special permits needed for the oversize wagons that carried the largest imported bolts of Carthaki and Yamani cloth, by turning to the king, asking (in a voice that silenced both bickering guildmasters) whether it might be possible to replace the present system of monthly quotas for permits with one based on the arrival of Carthaki and Yamani tradeships at Port Caynn, and receiving a cheerful royal assent with a direction to Duke Gary to see to it. There was a deal of surprised murmuring but Olimiaju had been cultivating relations with the palace as well as everyone else, and had besides, in the time afforded him by the Council’s prolonged inaction, made himself and his strength very helpful to any number of people, His Majesty included. As discussion resumed a notable tendency developed to look to the ogre — and Kel — when anything suggested it might be intractable in case either had a solution ; and as, even when they didn’t, one or other could usually suggest some fresh angle that left people thoughtful, things continued to rattle along.

Lady Skysong was silent, though her head swivelled from speaker to speaker, and Taren once or twice noticed Kel’s hand drift to rest for a moment on her flank, below the proudly worn collar with its rondel. The dragonet was, Taren knew, amused to be a secret weapon of sorts in several contingency plans Kel had hatched, but was nevertheless taking her formal guild responsibility as senior journeydragon very seriously, and holding annoyance at mortal foolishness in check. There was also the consideration that only guildmasters to whom Kel had already introduced a dragon would ever have been mindspoken, and for the rest that shock was being held in reserve ; Taren had grown so used to mindspeech he had half-forgotten the oddity and hadn’t thought of it as any kind of weapon, so the startled bemusement of his mother and aunt when they had met Skysong and Icefall had been a useful reminder.

Despite Master Norist’s efforts items concerning the Craftsbeings were reached at last, first among them the complaint, nominally from the Metalworkers though doubtless at Norist’s instigation, that a noble could not be a guild-apprentice. In a limited sense it was clever to have made the objection to nobility rather than gender, and the addition of _apprentice_ sought to side-step the little matter of Kel’s undoubted nobility and mastership — but still left the objection awkwardly implying that a noble might be any sort of guild-member other than an apprentice, and the Mastermetalworker knew it. He did make a case of sorts, contending with a deep breath and an awkward nod to Kel that it was the purpose of guilds to represent workers, artisans, and manufacturers, by definition commoners, against all-comers, including nobility, and that there were therefore good reasons for keeping nobles from guild-membership, and the tallies of the Councils of Nobles and Guilds far more sharply distinct than, say, those of Nobles and Army. Lady Varia’s case — and Taren noted with some scorn that the man didn’t seem to realise she was present — was therefore the thin end of a deeply unacceptable wedge, and while there was unfortunately no mechanism by which the Craftsbeings could be obliged to rescind her admission, he felt it vital they be urged in the strongest terms to do so.

Kel nodded pleasantly. “I do take your points, Master Ebert, and if there were many among those in the Books of Gold and Silver lining up to join guilds I’d be sympathetic. But there are some points you managed to leave out, starting with the fact that not one guild represented here has anything whatever in its charter or established rules that mentions natal rank in relation to eligibility, while about half have a clear provision that in matters of protocol guild-rank comes before natal rank, so that it is, for example, Apprentice Lady Varia, not Lady Apprentice Varia. Which does rather suggest that the understanding of the guilds as a check on noble exploitation is … recent, shall we say? Even occasional, perhaps. And there are of course very many provincial and junior members of almost all guilds who would be extremely surprised to learn that their seniors were so dedicated to preventing their exploitation.”

Kel’s smile was equally pleasant, but a large part of the audience murmured appreciation, especially more junior guild-members in the gallery, and quite a few masters around the table winced, while Norist’s colour again deepened alarmingly.

“One can also make quite the opposite case, Master Ebert, and I do. Look around this table, if you will, and notice that every face save mine, Lady Skysong’s, and Journeyogre Elimiaju’s is male, pale, and from a family that has been based in Corus and had senior members of its particular guild for more than a century. It may seem odd that a noble guildmaster, an immortal journeybeing, and a noble apprentice make for an important start to some much-needed diversity, but so it is. And I take the opportunity to point out to all of you that your charters have as little to say about gender and eligibility for membership as about natal rank.” Kel’s smile sharpened. “Now there is of course no mechanism by which the Craftsbeings can oblige any of you to stop discouraging or refusing female applicants for apprenticeship despite lacking any authority of charter or established rules to do so, but I do urge you all in the strongest terms to consider it, very carefully, and ensure that there are soon women on all your rolls. I believe I, and others, might … take it amiss, shall we say, were you to do otherwise, whereas prompt action would attract more than the Craftsbeings’ favour.” The stunned Mastermetalworker flickered a glance at Their Majesties, both wearing predatory smiles, and Kel wasn’t done with him yet, voice sharpening as her own smile vanished. “And finally, Master Ebert, I would point out that, whatever your intent in tabling this objection, your failure to notify Apprentice Lady Varia directly before citing her to this Council amounts to a gross breach of courtesy as well as protocol, any member of any guild having a right to know of proceedings taken against them.”

Taren enjoyed the horrified look on the Mastermetalworker’s face as Kel turned in her seat.

“Apprentice Lady Varia, do you wish to make a formal complaint about that breach of courtesy and protocol? Or you, Lord Taren, as Apprentice Lady Varia’s legal guardian?”

They both stood, Taren enjoying Master Ebert’s increasingly severe discomposure as well as his mother’s and aunt’s intent observation, and pointedly let Var take the lead in a matter concerning her, noting with pride her unruffled composure despite her audience.

“Given the Mastermetalworker’s strong traditionalism, Guildmaster, I cannot suppose he would deliberately flout such well-established procedure, so I would be inclined to think it an unfortunate and regrettable oversight on the part of his staff rather than a calculated personal insult. On this occasion, therefore, a simple apology, with an assurance that there will be no repetition, will suffice.”

“So noted, Apprentice Lady Varia. Lord Taren?”

“If my sister is content with an apology, Guildmaster, I shall be so too. But I recall that there have been several other such … unfortunate omissions of due courtesy, slighting yourself, the Craftsbeings, and even His Majesty — attempts improperly to impose tariffs, letters not copied to the palace, and so forth.” The King gave a sharp nod, fixing Master Norist with a hard royal stare. “I would therefore inform Guildmaster Ebert that I shall _not_ be so forgiving of any further lapses, and that I shall in due course be considering the place of the Metalworkers’ Guild at Stone Mountain, where any number of serious questions arising from last year’s revelations remain to be decided.”

“So noted also, Lord Taren. Master Ebert?”

The man had clearly not reckoned with Taren taking offence on his sister’s behalf but understood the threat, and if his apology was more aghast and mumbled than forthright, it _was_ an apology, and should have ended the objection. But Master Norist’s glare at Kel was unforgiving, and as Taren and Varia sat he spoke with a new edge in his voice.

“Are we then to be insulted and threatened at the whim of the Craftsbeings?”

Kel’s voice remained conversational, but Taren heard the flatness of increasing irritation underneath.

“What insult would that be, Master Norist?”

“You implied we exploit our own members!”

Taren could only see Kel’s profile but bet an eyebrow was raised.

“By comparison with the Craftsbeings, Master Norris, many guilds do exactly that. Tell me, what percentage of your members are resident in Corus, and what percentage of your profits are centrally retained?”

Norist’s glare became a stare. “I don’t have such figures to hand.”

“Don’t you, Master Norist? How fortunate then that I do.” Around the table breaths were drawn in. “By the Glassblowers’ own roll fewer than ten percent of your members reside in Corus, while from their last filed accounts, covering 461 — two later sets are overdue — tithes to central administration from outside Corus were eight times greater than disbursements, to anywhere. Additionally, all examinations for promotion are held here, at Glassblowers’ Hall, but neither travel nor accommodation are subsidised in any way, and there are large additional fees for registering an earned promotion that explain why few bother. Most other guilds are … not quite as bad, but the general pattern is consistent, and has since the northern conquests by King Jasson amounted to a constant tax paid by the poorest parts of Tortall to the richest. To state facts, Master Norist, is no insult, however those facts are shameful and must change.”

“So you say.”

“Yes, I do, Master Norist. Senior guild-members should support their juniors, not batten on them. I would not expect other guilds to adopt a model quite as egalitarian as suits the Craftsbeings, but the central … greed, to be frank, of the last century certainly needs to be tempered.”

There was another, louder murmur of agreement from the audience, and the sheer opulence of the Council building surrounding them underlined Kel’s point. Master Norist didn’t like it, but shifted ground.

“Be that as it may, there was also your absurd demand that we all admit women, backed with a threat of action against us should we not. Such conduct is unacceptable, and so is your demand. If some charters fail to specify that only men may be admitted, that is because it is self-evident that women are unfit and unfitted for what we do.”

There was an abrupt hush, and though Kel didn’t move Taren saw a balanced tautness come to her.

“Well, now, it’s a while since anyone was bold or foolish enough to make such a claim to my face, but it doesn’t change the facts. Self-evident to whom, Master Norist? And it is not the case that _some charters fail to specify_ — I have been unable to find a single charter that explicitly restricts membership to men.”

“Self-evident to anyone with the least sense! Physical strength alone settles it.” Kel cocked her head amid a deepening silence, and Norist hurried on. “And charters need not be explicit in such a matter, for the obvious is implicit throughout. The Glassblowers’ own clearly assumes male capacity and endurance in every way, and it is ridiculous to suppose that a woman could mine, or work a forge.”

“I must disagree, Master Norist. And it is merely your assumption that maleness is implicit. There were female members of most guilds, even smiths, miners, and glassblowers, in the first and second centuries, and it was only with the rise of the cult of the Gentle Mother in the third that women ceased to be admitted as apprentices. In short, Master Norist, it is not any innate incapacity that debars women from the guilds, merely prejudice and a mistaken belief that recent practice is somehow mandated by charter or law.”

Master Norist gave Kel a twisted but oddly triumphant smile.

“And I must disagree, Guildmistress.” The vocative again carried a sneer, and Taren wondered at the man’s blindness. “The Glassblowers’ charter makes it clear that it applies to men and men alone, and before your pernicious misunderstanding of it can go further I shall make it clear that that is so, by reading it into the records of this meeting, with appropriate commentary.”

Norist’s wilful discourtesy, after omitting any of Kel’s ranks for so long, brought angry looks, not least the king’s, but the glassblower was so intent on his agenda of obstruction he didn’t realise the wider hostility he was incurring. Opening a leather-bound tome and finding the place he wanted, he began in a deliberately slow and droning voice to read the Glassblowers’ charter, stressing the use of _master_ and _he_ whenever they occurred but offering no opportunity to interrupt him. Kel gazed at him for a moment, then glanced around the table, and turned to give Lady Skysong a nod. The dragonet drew herself up, and concentrated fiercely for a moment while anticipation ratcheted up.

 _I understand that speakers at this Council should not be interrupted, and I do not interrupt Master Norist, though he is being very annoying as well as silly, because he alone cannot hear me._ Norist droned on as others straightened, amazement on some faces, and Lady Skysong in turn looked around the table. _Guildmaster Keladry asks me to ask all other guildmasters present, save only Master Norist, if you really wish to listen to him being annoying, or if you would welcome a peaceful but permanent solution to his foolishness. If you would rather listen to him, please raise a hand._

The dragonet gave it a long moment, but while many glances were exchanged no hand was raised, not even by the Mastermetalworker or Mastersmith. Skysong swivelled on her chair.

_Ambassador Jadewing, as Master Norist is obstructing the proper business of the Craftsbeings’ Guild, and there is clear precedent for immortal intervention when that happens, sanctioned by Ancestor Rainbow, I wonder if you might be willing to move Master Norist out of earshot, into one of those webbed spaces Kawit has been teaching us._

Lord Jadewing too concentrated for a moment.

_I do commend you on this advanced skill in mindspeaking between kinds, Skysong — it is no mean feat for one your age. And I shall be happy to remove Master Norist from earshot, for you are right that he is being very annoying indeed. The Dragonmeet would not stand for this sort of thing, and I see no reason why the Council of Guilds should do so._

Jadewing’s gaze shifted, and abruptly Norist was moving backwards, space sliding and folding around him as the table before him bent and elongated, stretching beyond possibility while walls and windows moved aside. Jaws dropped and heads swivelled, and Taren heard huffs of amused satisfaction from more than the king. His mother gave a faint squeak, but Aunt Lily had what might almost be a grin on her face. Already inaudible and dwindled into distance, Norist finally looked up, started, and came to his feet, climbing onto the table and trying to run back towards them. Taren swallowed laughter as he rose in the air and described a figure-of-eight loop, not apparently noticing that for half of it he was upside down. Var hummed pleasure, and Taren recalled Kawit’s bizarre demonstration of what happened if you twisted a strip of paper and rejoined its ends. Everyone watched the distant figure complete several more loops before coming to a halt, hands on knees and plainly panting, though as it happened still upside-down.

“Mmmm. Thank you, Lord Jadewing. That is _most_ helpful.” Kel’s voice had lost its flatness, sounding warm and rich. “Now, Guildmasters, the first order of business must be a vote of no confidence in Master Norist. All else aside, his tactics have _not_ been working, as I believe you all realise, and this Council cannot continue to be paralysed by fears and foolishness when it has so much urgent business. As all gods and immortals agree, the Timeway has turned, and we enter a new and more peaceful age, so yes, there are changes, and some are surprising and uncomfortable at first.” Her gaze shifted to the Metalworkers and Smiths. “But in the longer run they promise renewed prosperity and comfort for all, and passing beyond old problems. His Majesty had good and necessary reasons to create a monopoly on immortal work, and it will remain — but the Craftsbeings welcome co-operation wherever it is of mutual benefit, and gods know there are benefits to be had. I therefore propose that Masterglassblower Norist be dismissed as chair, and propose Masterfishmonger Yaril replace him, with Masterwhitesmith Bodram as his deputy.”

Taren had been privy to some of Kel’s thinking on this topic, and the choices were shrewd — both masters were of very old guild families, respected by all, but also flexible and sensible men who had seen the advantages of co-operation, with much to gain from renewal in the north, and neither was as yet closely aligned with the Craftsbeings though today’s agenda had started to draw them in. It was a clear declaration from Kel that she wanted a properly working Council, and when the Masterweaver seconded her and called for votes, both were unanimously in favour, even Metalworkers and Smiths abandoning Norist without hesitation. Receiving the gavel, Yaril glanced at Lord Jadewing and looked at Kel.

“The remaining items concern reports you wish to make, Guildmaster. Getting on with it would be more productive, but if the, ah, present arrangement is, um, strenuous for Lord Jadewing, we could deal with Norist now.”

Kel turned. “Is keeping Master Norist there a strain, my lord?”

_Not in the least, Protector. Do carry on, Master Yaril._

Yaril nodded jerkily. “Ah, thank you, my lord. What was it you wished to report, Guildmaster?”

“My own thanks, Lord Jadewing, and … four things, Master Yaril. The first is that with the pilgrim routes, new mines at Pakkai Corner and elsewhere, opening of Fort Basilisk at Vassa Junction, and land being opened to settlement by the Pilgrims’ Way, there are many opportunities at New Hope for journeybeings and younger masters. I have already spoken with some of you about this, but say now clearly for the record that the residence of the Craftsbeings at the Citadel does not mean other guild-members are in any way unwelcome, anywhere in my fief. I have of necessity opened smithies, farriers’ shops, and inns on my own account, as well as mines, and those who run them will not be obliged to join any guild, but guild ventures will be welcome. Any guild-member who becomes my lieger will of course be bound by my rules, but that should be no problem for any guild willing to be reasonable about what it expects from new workshops in a new fief. And I remind all that Scanran trade is growing steadily, while Vassa trade will expand enormously as soon as the river is fully navigable, in two or three years. To be blunt, New Hope needs honest men and women of every trade, and will welcome them and their families generously. I will not of course allow anyone in my care to be exploited, but there are proper guild tithes as well as improper ones and greedily levied fees. Being reasonable and practical does not seem any great price for the scale of opportunity New Hope offers all.”

Master Yaril nodded sharply. “Thank you, Guildmaster. That is a boon, and there are some very interesting advantages to having a guildmaster who is also a liegelady, so I am sure many will wish to speak further to you of this. I shall do so myself regarding the increased catch at Mindelan, serving Yamani pilgrims, and matters that will arise as the Vassa trade picks up.”

“Certainly, Master Yaril. I shall be in Corus until Imbolc, at least, and am happy to speak to any who request a meeting. The second thing is related, because the branches of the Craftsbeings’ mandated by His Majesty wherever there are resident immortals are being established with all speed. There is therefore the question of relations between such branches and any branches of other guilds already present. I can see no reason for problems, but many opportunities for co-operation and mutual benefit, and would therefore ask all present to discuss this in their own councils with all speed, and issue clear instructions to any ranking members likely to be in contact with any new branch of the Craftsbeings. Oh, and in many cases the senior mortal representative of the Craftsbeings will be noble, my kin connections being one thing I _have_ been able to draw on. Journeyogre Olimiaju has lists of new branches and assignments, and will be happy to discuss arrangements with you.”

Everyone was looking thoughtful, some calculating, and Taren remembered with pleasure the firm instructions Kel had given Erde and the others about what could and could not be tolerated. How many of those at this table realised that Kel’s purpose was to reverse the usual guild dynamics was moot, but changes at branch level would be filtering up, whatever instructions were passed down ; engagement with the Craftsbeings was going to be beneficial for all, but not necessarily in the way anyone expected.

“The third thing is more straightforward, for the Craftsbeings’ Guild has two new products — Magically Assisted Towers, or MATs, also known as hoick’ems, and petrified foam.”

Kel took a small hoick’em from her pocket, attached it to the table in front of her, and triggered it, making the table rise about three inches and hang there. Using one finger, Kel pushed it forward a foot and drew it back again, before Olimiaju held it down and she removed the hoick’em. A hum of interest ran through Council and audience alike.

“They use the dragons’ and stormwings’ hovering-spell to lift a given weight, are available in several strengths, and last at least a year. It may well be longer, but we cannot yet affirm that. As you can imagine, they have many uses, and demand is already high, but where they can make real contributions to the health and safety of guildmembers we are willing to grant priority. My senior clerk, Mandrinal, will be happy to receive applications from members of this Council.”

More than one guildmaster was rubbing hands in satisfaction, and there was a chorus of thanks around the table. Kel nodded.

“You are all welcome. The conflict between the Craftsbeings and this Council was not of my making, and need not continue. In any case, there is also petrified foam.” Olimiaju took a bag from a capacious ogre pocket and with swift precision lobbed small cubes to each Guildmaster, while Kel continued to speak. “In effect, soap-suds magically shaped before petrification. Very light, very strong, and because of the bubble-structure an insulator for heat and shock.” Her voice acquired a certain appreciative complexity. “It was Apprentice Lady Varia’s idea, and while it is of course the Glassblowers who could really use this as a packaging material, they won’t be doing so for some considerable while, so there is an opportunity for others — the Potters, certainly, but it also has the property, if basilisk-sealed, of being both airtight and extremely hard for anyone _not_ a basilisk to open, so the Goldsmith-Bankers and Jewellers in particular might wish to consider that carefully.”

Taren had never been quite sure what level Kel thought this particular irony belonged to, but the fact was that the Glassblowers would continue to have their usual high rate of breakages in transit, a constant source of friction and complaint, while those of the Potters would fall sharply, and Master Norist had no-one to blame except himself — one interesting question arising being what blame other members of his guild might care to assign him. Kel would have been announcing the new products anyway, but the way in which Var’s inspiration about foam seemed specifically to slap at the Glassblowers was sufficiently pleasing to make one wonder about more than mortal ironies. He saw Kel savour it, before her gaze hardened.

“The last thing is of a different order. Master Ebert, will you allow me some plain speaking?”

Looking much like Junior called to order by Lord Diamondflame, the Mastermetalworker swallowed and nodded.

“Thank you. I am not concerned to hash over how your guild, with the Smiths, got themselves into such a state at Stone Mountain and elsewhere, but I am concerned with your response to exposure of that treason. Frankly, Master Ebert, denial won’t do, and speaking now as Protector, Countess, and Clanchief, it can in certain respects no longer be tolerated. In the first place, none bears any responsibility for actions by others of which they were not aware, or were powerless to prevent — so, please, stop being foolish about this. And in the second, those former mastermetalworkers and mastersmiths condemned for treason, and sentenced to work on replacement limbs for veterans, are not making the progress they ought to be, and one problem is that the skills of other guildmembers are needed, including Craftsbeings and Metalworkers. Are you aware of the Wounded Veterans’ Association? They will be sending a representative to the workshop where the condemned labour, as will the Craftsbeings, and if you wish to rehabilitate your guild, in more eyes than mine, you will send one too, and respond rapidly and positively to any request that representative makes. Our wounded deserve better than they are getting, and they _will_ receive it. Am I clear?”

When she named herself as Protector, Countess, and Clanchief Kel’s voice hadn’t changed but those mantles had all but tangibly dropped onto her shoulders and the force of her will had made the air seem denser. Her Scanran Guards had straightened, eyes gleaming, Lord Jadewing’s head had moved forward, and most mortals, around the table or in the audience, seemed to hold their breaths. Taren felt his mother’s hand grasp his arm, trembling, and brought his other hand across to rest comfortingly on hers. Master Ebert swallowed again.

“You are, my lady. It has been … very difficult.”

“I imagine it has, Master Ebert, but I believe you will find that a new strategy offers comfort as well as many advantages. Perhaps you would care to dine with me and Count Domitan tomorrow night.”

The invitation was shakily accepted, and the air thinned again as Kel gave an austere smile and turned to Master Yaril.

“That’s all, Master Yaril. Shall we finish up?”

“By all means, Guildmaster.”

At Kel’s request Lord Jadewing abruptly returned Master Norist to his place at the table — or rather, on the table, the leather-bound tome crumped beneath his sweaty and disordered person, his eyes wild as his mouth worked.

“You … you …”

Master Yaril banged the gavel, and Norist’s head turned.

“Yes, Master Norist. Us. Your peers, who have unanimously voted to remove you from leadership of this Council. I would propose the usual vote of thanks to an outgoing officer, but I don’t think you deserve one. You were clearly and repeatedly warned that your strategy would win us nothing, and a quite different strategy can win us all a great deal. Now, it’s all been a bit irregular, I grant, but as we’re all in agreement no protest will get you anywhere. Are you going to make one anyway?”

Norist blinked, and Kel’s implacable voice brought his head round.

“Be aware, Master Norist, in considering your decision, that His Majesty and His Grace of Wellam have personally witnessed all that has passed, and that Lord Jadewing is subject to no mortal law or jurisdiction. You chose, for no better reason than personal pique, to try to obstruct changes that have become necessary, and now you pay the price. Think very carefully before you increase it, Master Norist, for like Lord Taren I will not be so forgiving of any further discourtesies, and I remind you that by those traditions you so honour a Guildmaster, whatever his or her natal rank, is a person of honour liable to challenge.”

Taren allowed himself a nod as eyes flicked to him, though he was more interested in watching council members process — successfully, for the most part — the idea that Kel had so far been more than merciful to Norist. The old man’s selfish bitterness largely made her shrug, but his part in preventing the Metalworkers from recovering their balance had earned genuine anger, on Dom’s and other veterans’ behalves ; she’d never kill the man, but she would drag him onto a field of honour and strip him of it, if she had to, and Taren saw Norist realise that truth, head hanging in defeat.

Master Yaril took a deep breath and banged his gavel again.

“Alright then, we’re done for today. I’ll send a circular about the griffins, and I request and require every one of you to bring to our next meeting both a clear statement about relations with the new branches of the Craftsbeings, and a formal response to Guildmaster Keladry’s observations about our practices of admission and tithing. Fees, too. I prejudge nothing, but it’s clear to a blind man that there  _will_ be some reforms, and I think we’d best get on with them.” He took another deep breath. “Last of all, I believe I speak for the great majority of us in offering Guildmaster Keladry our sincere and grateful thanks for, well, giving us a good kick, more or less. We needed it, and now we have it we can get back to doing some proper business.” The gavel banged once more. “Meeting adjourned.”

There was probably no-one who didn’t want to speak to Kel, but as they were all hesitant about it and she had no wish to speak to any of them Taren soon found himself escorting his mother and sister out behind her and Dom and Their Majesties, equally sprightly in avoiding being collared, while Sam saw to their aunt. Lord Jadewing’s departure saw a considerable number of people propelled outside, as if the building were ejecting them from space it no longer had, and in a remarkably short time both the royal party and Kel’s were striding up Palace Way as Scanran, ogre, and royal guards parted the crowds. There was a great buzz of conversation all around, and Taren was amused to see Lord Wyldon and Duke Turomot exchanging genuine smiles while shaking their heads. His Majesty, though, had a frozen expression Taren thought he recognised, and when he saw, at the junction with Gold Street, a busking fiddler fall silent and step back to let them pass, he left Var to escort their mother and lengthened his stride to draw alongside the king.

“You know, sire, when Lords Diamondflame and Rainbow felt such an urge to laugh at Kel’s more wonderful tactics, they danced for all to see. Need a king do less?”

Queen Thayet snorted, hand rising to her mouth, as the King stopped short, staring at Taren.

“You suggest I dance, my lord? Here?”

“I suggest you show all your satisfaction, sire, rather than seeming unhappy, and grant your diaphragm some ease.” Taren flipped the busker a silver coin. “Something both dignified and lively, please, master fiddler, fit for a happy king.”

Taren thought His Majesty might have balked, even then, but the ripple of notes was compelling and a grinning Thayet took her husband’s hand, drawing him into a stately twirl. Kel, who had been talking with Prince Roald, looked at him quizzically, but beyond her Dom took her hand, and Taren extended his own to a laughing Var, relieved to express his own pleasure in movement. He wondered if any gods had been watching, and found himself mellowed about their habit of waiting for Kel to entertain them ; she did so often provide an irresistible show.

 

* * * * *

 

That evening saw the city possessed of a great good humour, with many spontaneous gatherings to mull over the tale. There was, as far as Taren could tell, both a simpler satisfaction among guild-members at the unjamming of the Council with a promise of some reforms and fairer fees and tithing, easing things for many juniors, and a more general and complex pleasure in the Protector having once again lived up to her title and taken her glaive — plus a dragon or two — to some of Tortall’s remaining bigots. She might be absent far more often than not, but she had become the Lower City’s own, and they rejoiced.

Taren, Var, and Sam had spent the afternoon accompanying their mother and aunt to see Mrs Weaver at Stuivek Street, primarily to collect ballgowns for both older women that had them sighing pleasure, and took the opportunity to catch up with her a little. Taren issued an invitation to a Longnight party, accepted with pleasure, and heard with interest that more than one senior master among the humiliated Glassblowers had already told Guildmaster Norist bluntly that he should retire, soon, to enjoy some quiet leisure somewhere else.

“I doubt he has the sense, but one way or another he’ll soon be gone.” Mrs Weaver laughed. “Isn’t my lady wonderful? You’d think they’d have learned by now, the way she keeps setting silly men to rights.”

“One would hope so, I agree. And Kel could surely do without them — she was hoping for some peace after Yaman, and again after rescuing the Princess and dealing with Rathhausak, but the Council’s obstruction was beginning to affect development at New Hope.”

Mrs Weaver nodded, signalling an assistant to refresh cups of tea.

“So I gathered, my lord, and you’re not wrong, of course — if anyone deserves some rest it’s my lady.” She dimpled at him. “But I think she’s dealt with everyone now, so perhaps we can all just get on with things. Which reminds me, Tom asked me to tell you that the Weavers will be making a big effort with your tapestry, and thinks you’ll be offered a handsome discount too.”

Taren’s eyebrows rose. “I’m not sure why I should be, Mrs Weaver.”

“Aren’t you, my lord? Well, say that they appreciated the way you put Guildmaster Ebert on the spot, then — no-one’s been happy with the Metalworkers. And the way you’ve supported my lady hasn’t gone unnoticed, you know, nor those new Protector’s Maids at Stone Mountain, with your other investments, and buying that house for the Wounded Veterans’ Association.”

Taren had not publicised that donation, but it was of legal necessity a matter of record, and Her Majesty had certainly known. At some level it soothed his conscience about Stone Mountain’s role in making the killing devices, however Wuodan would tell him off for feeling any guilt on that score, but it had also been a sound if expensive political move. He was, however, going to have to explain it to his mother and aunt, both looking at him quizzically, but that could wait.

“I’m glad to earn Stone Mountain a better name, Mrs Weaver, but I still don’t see where any discount comes in. I’ll welcome faster delivery, though — I’ve had the great hall at Stone Mountain cleaned and whitewashed, but without the tapestry it all looks very bare.”

Some less charged discussion of the difficulties of redecorating a castle gave his mother and aunt a chance to contribute, and ended with Mrs Weaver suggesting a particular draper might have some fabrics in the weights they wanted. When business reclaimed her they departed on what proved a successful mission to the draper, enjoying the air of celebration and the respectful nods quite a few folk offered as they passed. Back at the townhouse Taren had less relish for a discussion of his generosity, but found himself gently cornered by Aunt Lily and provided with a glass of wine ; Var winked at him as Sam filled one for their mother, and his aunt peered at him with bright eyes.

“I realise it embarrasses you, Taren dear, but your mother and I have some things we need to say. It was very exciting today, and of course the magic and seeing Lady Keladry deal with all those men was wonderful, but for us there’s something more, and that’s seeing the way people respect you, and us with you.” Aunt Lily drank, and her voice became reflective. “I didn’t have to come to Corus so often, because Henchard preferred to bring that woman of his, but your mother had to be on Burchard’s arm when he wanted, and it wasn’t so easy.”

Taren bet it hadn’t been, but gave his mother an enquiring look, and she nodded.

“Everyone was always coldly polite, and your father was the same back, but they didn’t like him and the nice ones felt sorry for me. You can always tell.” She sighed. “I never have understood politics, but I did know far more people truly disliked him than he ever seemed to realise. It was a relief when he shut himself away at home. But it’s so different now, dear, because everyone likes and respects you so much — all three of you, but you especially, Taren dear. Even that old stickler Nond was saying how well you were doing, and Lord Wyldon was _very_ complimentary about you all. Commoners, too — all the shopkeepers we’ve spoken to, and the journeyman healer I saw about getting our hedgewitches better training was explaining how important those stormwings you’ve invited to Stone Mountain will be, because lots of healers want to see what they’ll be doing, and can offer our own people training while they stay with us.”

Struggling with emotions, Taren bent his head briefly.

“I had hoped that would be so, Mama, and it’s a good thing Queen Barzha fell pregnant as she did because I learned yesterday that Queen Thalia also has hopes, and will be with us no later than Beltane.”

He didn’t need to mention that Queen Thalia’s pregnancy was a result of attending the executions at Clan Beorhtscyld, but in their darking-exchange Barzha had promised him, eyes glinting as she relayed the news, that the Stone Mountain healers training at New Hope would receive a thorough briefing on stormwing fertility.

“So soon?” His mother’s brief alarm swiftly shifted to a pleased determination. “I must let the healer hall know. But I’m distracting myself. What I wanted to say, dear, was that Lily and I are not only very grateful, we’re also very proud of you, all of you. I was so afraid for you all for so long, and I felt so guilty seeing you try to protect me when I should have been protecting you.” Taren wanted to protest but found himself shushed by his aunt as his mother went on. “No, I should have. Parents should. But nothing I could do did any good, nor Lily. And when it all changed, with Joren dead and your father abdicating and you banishing Henchard, I just felt numb with the shock, not knowing what would happen. But even my wildest hopes fell short of this.”

Some emotional conversation settled into a proper explanation of the Wounded Veterans’ Association, with the prosthetic uses of petrified foam, and the progress of the Stone Mountain man who’d lost an arm in the sally leavened the underlying connection between killing devices and the unprecedented number of limbs lost in the Scanran War. His mother’s concern was more general health and better midwifery, but the wounded were a logical extension and she was genuinely interested in the connections between veterans and injured miners, if wary of a reconnection with the condemned metalworkers. They were beginning to contemplate dinner when a wide-eyed servant came in to announce the Countess and Count of New Hope, with others, were requesting admission. Others turned out to be the twins, now champion crawlers beginning to experiment with walking, Tobe, Irnai, and a very bouncy Lady Skysong, trailing a mere half-dozen Scanran Guards. As orders were swiftly relayed to increase the size of dinner, above and below stairs, and bring more wine, Tobe and Irnai looked to the twins, exploring the rug, Kel sank into a chair with a sigh, and Dom smiled apologetically at him.

“Sorry to impose, Taren, but Piers and Ilane are being thoroughly diplomatic with assorted ambassadors and guildmasters, and Kel’s had enough of those for one day. Me too, frankly.”

“I imagine you have. And my congratulations on a part well played, Lady Skysong.”

_Thank you, Taren. I wish I was strong enough to do that spell myself, but I don’t suppose it would work on gods._

Taren blinked. “Me either. Has one been annoying you lately?”

_No, but I am sure one will get around to it soon, even though the darkings say they are all still very pleased with Kel._

“So we gather.” Quite where Darking ethics fell on this Taren still wasn’t sure, for they would never show the divine realm but seemed to have no problem relaying gossip. “I believe Lord Sakuyo enjoyed today, also, deeming it a fine jest. How is Lord Diamondflame?”

_Grandsire is well. He is also still pleased with Kel, and says he will come to see Jadewing when we are back at New Hope. I will have much to tell him._

Skysong bounced over to greet Taren’s mother and Aunt Lily, receiving their own charmed congratulations on her performance, and Taren found Dom giving him a look.

“Lord Sakuyo liked today?”

“So Blue tells me.”

The darking was communing with Button, but swivelled its head.

_Laughing god laughed. Others too. Fun._

“Good to know, Blue, thank you.” Dom shook his head. “I hadn’t dared ask, and shifting a silly guildmaster seems very small beer by this year’s standards.”

“Bloodless and effective, though, and that closed loop was a nice touch, especially when he stopped upside-down.”

“True, though I try not to think about anything with two sides having only one.” They exchanged wry smiles. “Still, Tobe thought it was right for someone so back-to-front, so I expect Lord Sakuyo agreed.”

“Probably.” Taren glanced at Kel, talking to Var, and lowered his voice. “Was she very upset about the bigotry?”

“More exasperated with sheer stupidity, I think. But she’s glad it’s all done — patiently wrangling people to see the obvious is not her favourite occupation, and tiring besides.”

“Tell me. I still don’t have a new priest, and the old one _cannot_ get past gaping at the list of shrines I want.” Dom grinned. “Which reminds me, any priestly news from Wuodan or Dabeyoun?”

“There was, actually, just before we left, and we should expect a Carthaki sometime next summer.” Dom shrugged. “Wuodan was busy with something affecting the Chaos-hunt Kel wants, but from what little he said we gathered he’s a warrior who grew weary of war, became a priest of the Black God, and has taken a severe dislike to temple politics, so the remoteness is actually an appeal. Var’s design, too, I think. Which reminds me that Piers and Ilane asked me to tell you they’re very happy with the proposed design for the memorial at Mindelan, and will be in touch when they have a moment, meaning after Longnight, I’d think.” Taren nodded, pleased. “Anyway, asking Dabeyoun was a very good call on your part, so our thanks. And we’re due a meeting with Holloran and the Yamani ambassador about turning some of our Blesseds into proper Sakuyans, if you’re interested.”

“Certainly. I shall be wanting a good Sakuyan myself, by the by.”

Dom laughed. “Will Stone Mountain survive official jesting?”

“It will learn to like it, eventually. Better to make a joke than be one, however you cut it.”

“Ouch. As bad as all that?”

“Oh, not really. We’re coming along well enough, but talk of turning quarries into temples and inviting stormwings has people thinking I’ve taken leave of my senses. It’ll be easier once things start happening.”

“Mmm. Barzha wants ogres and basilisks around when Thalia arrives, so you’ll be getting a mining-team sooner than you might have done.”

“Excellent. I entirely understand why Pakkai Corner had to be the priority, but that is welcome news. I’ll make sure a guild office is ready. Any particular preferences or specifications?”

With the twins asleep on a sofa, watched by two cheerful Scanrans and several delighted maids, matters of Stone Mountain took them into dinner, where conversation broadened, and looking round his table Taren found himself well-pleased, even with himself. Var and Sam were talking to Skysong, Kel and Dom to his beaming mother and aunt, while he and Tobe listened to Irnai’s latest interest in pre-Thanic history — a method of prophecy by studying the flight of birds that she thought very dubious. He imagined what his father would once have had to say about such a table of guests under Stone Mountain’s roof, and smiled.


	12. Epilogue -- A Public Future

**Epilogue : A Public Future**

_Stone Mountain, August 467 HE_

 

THINKING back over his long, slow courtship with Princess Lianne, both of them hesitant for quite different reasons but convinced in the end that beyond their increasingly necessary friendship they could do very well by and for one another, Taren mostly wondered how it had come to seem a good idea to combine their wedding with the dedication of Stone Mountain’s marvellous new temple. The logic was unarguable, many of the same guests being wanted for both events and having a long way to come, so his and Lianne’s close comings-of-age, with his accession to the King’s Council and settling the date of the dedication once all the statues of the High Ones were completed, had prompted them to decide that Getting On With It was in order — which had entirely delighted his mother and aunt, Queen Thayet, Prince Roald and Princess Shinkokami, and perhaps even King Jonathan, despite a continuing tendency to threatening royal looks and dark fatherly muttering. But Taren found he had somehow omitted to imagine either the sheer scale of preparation that _everyone_ would think necessary, or the nerves involved in the collocation of his family, such as it was, with massed nobility, assorted immortals, and in all likelihood a god or three. Some guests had already arrived, and the royal party, with Corus, Mindelan, and New Hope contingents, were expected in late afternoon ; cooks had been hard at work for hours, and his mother and aunt had everything well in hand, with Sam, Var, Captain Horgan, Steward Thalric, a royal chamberlain, Master Oakbridge, and a host of minions to fetch, carry, polish, and generally scramble to order, leaving him to a task that even now made his muscles tense, but had to be done.

He had thought it wise for his father to see the many changes at Stone Mountain before the royal guests and Kel arrived, and had summoned him to attend the Lord of Stone Mountain no later than noon. Informed of Taren’s engagement more than a year back, Lord Burchard had offered only a brief observation that it was an advantageous alliance when there was no further point in trying to conserve either bloodline, which had saddened rather than angered Taren. News last winter of Uncle Henchard’s death from lung-fever had occasioned equally little comment, and no desire to attend the funeral at Margaran, which Taren had kept, while proper, strictly private and low-key. His father still dwelt at the hunting-lodge, and seemed to have no plans to do otherwise, but did maintain his training-at-arms and worked regularly at the kennels : the scent-hound project was coming along nicely, and he was also breeding hunting- and guard-dogs, useful beasts that made handsome gifts. Taren wasn’t sure what Lord Mithros would think, but it was something, and there had even been an oblique enquiry about how Sam and Var were doing on one of the rare occasions when a nagging sense of filial duty made him stop by. The continuing withdrawal did mean, though, that (whatever he might have heard) Lord Burchard had not seen the transformations of Stone Mountain that the Craftsbeings’ Guild and the presence of Queen Thalia’s flock had wrought, in mining practice, landscape, and populace alike.

It had in general all gone more smoothly than Taren had dared hope, though not without its moments. The Guild team had dealt with the trade-road as they came, giving all carters, messengers, and anyone else who cared to go and look reasons to be grateful and welcoming, while Var’s clever scheduling had ensured that some of the most dangerous underground repairs were undertaken first, with results no miner could ignore. Thereafter basilisks and ogres had been cautiously welcomed by most, and if it had taken longer for true civility to join practical acceptance, that had happened all the same. Blue, Silk, and Petal were also slowly accepted, as word spread of the small companions he, Sam, and Var bore, but they were understood to be harmless, and were in any case always with a mortal. A stormwing flock, however, had been a very different proposition, and even now there were few who willingly spoke to the flying immortals, though smart leather tunics embroidered with names, the invaluable influx of interested healers who followed them, and a growing awareness of what they could do had won at least a grudging tolerance. Taren had made arrangements with the Wounded Veterans’ Association for some of those worst troubled by memories to come to try unterrifying, thinking that evidence of beneficial care would help, but it had been the first, and so far only, occasion on which he had asked the stormwings to force speech that had sunk deeper. A bad house-fire that had killed an elderly couple had turned out to have been set, and at the cost of briefly terrifying several innocents Queen Thalia had found the culprit, a servant dismissed for petty theft who had hoped to manage some looting in the chaos but misjudged things. It had been the first execution Taren had ever had to authorise, and though he had hated the whole business there had been an unexpected benefit in his liegers’ strong approval of the speed and surety of justice aided by immortal perceptions, and — everyone being scared of an arsonist — even of the flock feeding above the gallows. He had, on Kel’s advice, filed it under ‘Irony (immortal)’, and if he still didn’t entirely understand why people should be more impressed by swifter death than by better lives he was happy to see the stormwings respected.

Their young, once hatchings had begun, had also shifted perceptions helpfully, though not as much as the one visit by dragons — and _that_ was still bearing rich fruit, he thought, reining in beside Lord Burchard and gesturing to the view below. His father wore a deeply stunned expression as he contemplated what had once been a very large, very ugly, and dangerously unstable slagheap, and was now a sculpted grassy hill with winding paths and a scatter of young trees as well as a small rill on one flank, that fed a fair-sized pond attracting waterfowl before winding down and away to join the Petren.

“How … did you do this?”

“With the help of dragons and basilisks, Father. I find I don’t much care for eyesores, nor having liegers menaced by unstable slag, so Var negotiated with the Guild to have it fixed. The basilisks could just have stabilised it by binding the slag, but with the help of Lady Wingstar and Lord Jadewing we were able to shape it as well, and put in the rill and pond for drainage.”

Burchard stared at him, then half-nodded, eyes returning to the renewed landscape.

“I feared its collapse, but the miners all said moving anything was more dangerous than leaving it.”

“Mmm. You were also asking them to do it on top of the all-but-impossible workload Genlith’s quotas imposed, and without extra pay.” Taren waved a hand as his father frowned. “But it’s done now, and people walk there when the weather’s fine. The other large slagheaps were done at the same time, and on basilisk advice I’ve changed the rules generally, so we shape, stabilise, and grass new heaps as they grow.”

He received another awkward nod. “It is … you’ve done well.”

“Thank you, father.” Taren’s emotions were complicated, and the praise so long desired, so long known an impossibility, now seemed oddly unimportant, though he wondered if that would change. Blue shifted on his collar as he glanced up at the sun. “We should get on to the temple, if you don’t mind. I need to be back when Their Majesties arrive.”

“Yes.” His father spurred on, descending to the stone-road, and once Taren was beside him, Vesker and other guards falling in behind, gave him an odd look. “Do you expect me to greet the King and Queen?”

“Personally, yes. Formally, no. You can join us all for a drink before dinner, and retire as soon as the meal’s done.”

“Very well.” His father swallowed. “I … no longer resent Their Majesties, but … I would not seek their company.”

“You need offer only simple courtesy. And frankly, Father, I doubt that they’ll seek yours.” Taren let Lord Burchard digest that, thinking that his reluctance was still more to do with pride than shame. “Beyond that courtesy, to all, be as austere and silent as you wish, though Lords Wyldon and Dagal are both coming so you might wish to speak of hounds. All that matters to me is that you be seen alive and well, and supporting my marriage to Lianne.”

“Of course. The politics do not change.”

“In that, no, and the more so because so few nobles have seen you since your last departure from Corus. In other things, though, you might be surprised. Remember Tortall now has solid alliances with Scanra, Carthak, Yaman, and Galla, as well as far better relations with the Copper Isles under Queen Dovasary, so there is no serious foreign threat. And domestically, the many resident immortals under treaty are integrating well, while as you know the end of the Scanran War saw … some considerable turnover, let’s say, in both nobility and guilds, so politics are more pragmatic than they used to be.” Taren voice became drier. “And however you feel about it, Countess Keladry commands both a large majority on the King’s Council, including New Helm and New Spring, and a profound and widespread respect, so one way and another rather more gets done these days.”

The renaming decisions of Lords Douglas and Alan had been popular, as well as a joint declaration of alignment, and his father nodded.

“I … see. I imagine the King is happy with that.”

“He is, yes. But say rather that he and Thayet are, without constant threats of war and treason, understandably more relaxed. Roald and Shinko have taken on more public duties, too, so Their Majesties are less badly stretched.”

“Yes. I never faulted their energy.”

Taren contemplated that concession, wondering what it meant to a man who still chose not to tolerate much of the world, and they rode in silence until, rounding a wooded spur, the dome of the temple and its towering stone supports became visible.

“What on …”

“Wait and see.”

Basilisks and ogres had turned the once ragged quarry into a nearly perfect three-quarter circle as well as roofing it, and the projecting quarter-dome rested on two petrified pillars, gleaming in the westering light that flared from the glass above, crowning all. Shorter pillars topped by a curving lintel marked out the quarter-circle and created a formal entry into an outer precinct, but there was no door, only the gap in the cliffs, neatened at the sides and capped by the dome, but open to the air as the temple was open to all. Dismounting, he let Vesker take his horse and nodded to the guards flanking the entry, gesturing his father forward. Inside, the floor was levelled and polished rock, and besides one low plinth for a celebrant and those participating in namedays or weddings there were only icelights, a simple set of curving benches, for tomorrow only a set of perches for Queen Thalia and her flock, and on the inmost arc of rock the eight niches holding the shrines.

There had never been any question in his mind which gods would be represented, nor that Mithros and the Great Goddess would be central, but displacing the double-width niche for Lord Weiryn and the Green Lady had posed a question he had answered by combining the figures of the Black God and Graveyard Hag in a second double-width niche ; the additional presence of a laughing Dabeyoun (with one of the Hag’s sacred rats) corresponded to the marvellously alive figures of Wuodan and Frige, flanking Lord Weiryn and the Green Lady. Beyond them were, on one side, Lords Gainel and Sakuyo, and on the other Lady Shakith and a niche holding only a carved representation of the gods’ circle, dedicated to all High Ones. He had tried to find someone at Stone Mountain who could carve the statues, but in the end had with Kel’s help tracked down the Gallan who had created the figure of Lord Sakuyo that stood in his temple in Edo, and paid the man handsomely to come for more than a year and undertake them all. Darkings having seen every god save Lord Gainel manifest in the mortal realm, accurate images had been available from Blue, Petal, and Silk, and when the Gallan averred that the face and image of the Dream King had come to him as he slept Taren wasn’t going to argue. He, Var, and Sam were all throughly delighted with the results, and the Gallan had done a second, smaller figure of the Great Goddess for a distinct purpose.

His father, pausing to stare at each god and often looking up, completed a slow circuit, and came to stand before him, face very still.

“This … building … I suppose, or space, maybe, is … an astonishment.”

“As a house for the gods should be.”

“Indeed. But …” — his father gestured upwards — “such a roof!”

“For the Craftsbeings’ a glass hemisphere is a standard design. Those who did this one were more interested by the challenge of the pillars.”

“A standard …” Lord Burchard shook his head a little to clear it. “You told me about a large greenhouse, I recall, but I did not understand. The statues are surprisingly good.”

Taren nodded. “A Gallan sculptor, who came recommended.”

“By?”

“Lord Sakuyo.” His father blinked. “Indirectly. Kel took a carving of that High One as a gift when she attended the dedication of his temple in Edo, and he chose it as his principal image there, making it grow.”

“I … see.” Taren inclined his head, doubting it. “And why these other gods, the open niche, and the steps on both sides of the plinth?”

“Saving Lord Gainel, whom I do not care to slight, those represented are the High Ones I have myself seen more than once. The open niche is for the servants of all others. And the steps on the further side are for any god who might manifest and not wish to stand below the celebrant. It seems only polite.”

There was a pause while several expressions were stillborn on his father’s face.

“More than once.”

“Just so, though not, saving Lord Mithros, to talk to — at Aussonne and at Hléodréam. How many may manifest tomorrow I have no idea, but for various reasons a … strong showing will not surprise me.” He took a deep breath. “One thing you need to know, Father, is that while Archdivine Holloran will conduct the dedication, Lianne and I have asked Countess Keladry to be the celebrant of our marriage. Although she does not openly claim the rank, having quite enough hats already, she is recognised by all temples as a fit celebrant, and acts as one at New Hope. And given _all_ the circumstances, Lianne and I want no-one else.”

“The temples accept her? I did not know that.”

Taren bit back a retort. “They have for some years. I believe Lord Weiryn’s and the Green Lady’s cheerful acceptance of her invitation to dine and dance left Archdivine Holloran feeling he had little choice.”

To his surprise a faint smile crossed his father’s face.

“Rightly so. I was more surprised at the divines’ approval, and a little at her being willing to undertake such a role.”

“Mmm. Tover _doesn’t_ approve, I fancy, but knows better than to say so in my hearing. I have allowed him to keep the temple in town, where he will find attendance dwindling, and this one has a new man, Fordel, who is … more sensible. Archdivine Holloran was mostly relieved, I think — he is very happy to defer to Kel when actual gods are involved. And Kel has been known to grumble about demands on her time, but it matters to her liegers, and unless there are strong reasons she confines namedays and weddings to the quarter-days.”

His father nodded, looking thoughtful. “I see. Tover was never of any use to me, and offered no guidance, but I have thought that I allowed the seasonal feasts to fall into too casual an observance."

“You did, yes. We depend on our fields as well as our stone, and I believe all are happier with the renewal of proper offerings and attendance.” Taren took a breath. “Forgive me, but I have never understood why you would slight the gods of their traditional dues even while crying out for their regard.”

His father looked away, but then met his gaze.

“Blindness. Obsession.” A faint shrug, perhaps at the euphemisms for overweening pride. “I was intent on Lord Mithros, no other, and did not … suppose he cared about such things.”

“I believe what matters is that _we_ care about such things. The ceremony means all must concentrate on the divine, and the holiday feasts give useful structure and occasion. Production is up, you know, despite my abolishing quotas.” He hesitated, but forced himself on. “Forgive me again, but you and Uncle Henchard were far too _narrow_ , in so very many things. Purity of blood and custom, results measured only in tons of ore, steel, and ashlar, Lord Mithros and no other — and one heir to be all things. Do you see the pattern?”

After a moment he received a jerky nod.

“Yes. I … it is hard to accept, but I know I … misunderstood much.” Lord Burchard grimaced and spoke with slow care. “Countess Keladry … opened my eyes when she offered to speak to the elemental. She was … sincere. And that night she called on three gods to strike down that fool Torhelm, and was answered. She swore to her own death also. I could not sleep for the weight of … confusion. But what the elemental said …”

Moved despite himself Taren put a hand briefly on his father’s arm, receiving a surprised look.

“I know what the Lord of the Chamber told you about Joren, Father. You did not deserve his … malice. Sam, Var, and I often wished you … different, but we did not wish you dead. We did, however, wish Joren dead. Often and imaginatively. Do you understand how cruel he was?”

“Cruel? I … he … was it very bad?”

“Bad enough. Ask Healer Rumil how often he had to patch up Var. Or don’t — we’ve all healed ourselves, with Kel’s help, though Sam and Var would probably value an apology. Mother and Aunt Lily, too.”

“I … you wouldn’t?”

Taren shrugged. “Too late for me, I think, and I have already forgiven you in so far as I am able.” Was that a wince? “But there is one more thing you should see before we finish this conversation, at the mausoleum.”

Taren hadn’t intended to put needless stress on his father, but as they rode the long mile back to town and up to the stables he decided it did no harm to — he smiled to himself — discombobulate him a little. Or a lot, and he took care to point out various changes in the town : the Guild Office, with its ogre- and basilisk-scale doors, some of the Protector’s Maids shops, and the war memorial in the central square, the Goddess’s healing spiral wrapped around a sword, that replicated the national war memorial in Corus and honoured all Tortallan casualties while regretting everyone’s dead and invoking renewal. The resting-place of the Lords of Stone Mountain had its own compound within the walled grounds behind the castle, greensward surrounding the over-ornate building, and his father stopped dead as he saw the new, triple-roofed tea-house that stood beside it, but Taren propelled him onwards.

“I will explain after you have seen inside.” Taren took a deep breath. “Be aware that I wanted, very badly, to smash that effigy of Joren you had installed. I imagine that after hearing the Lord of the Chamber you had some harsh thoughts yourself.”

“I ... yes. I still do not understand how he could … be so …”

“Hateful? Ungrateful?” Taren shrugged. “Sir Nealan of Queenscove says he was halt in his soul, as a man may be in his leg. I tend to agree. And I believe you know why he failed his ordeal.”

His father looked at him sharply.

“Yes. Do you?”

“I do. Kel told me what the Lord of the Chamber said. I mention it only because it matters to what I have done here that Joren preferred to die than keep his fief safe by serving Kel.”

His father closed his eyes for a moment, and Taren watched the traces of emotion that passed over his face — pain, regret, perhaps, and something that might be rue as well as a flash of anger.

“It was … foolish of him.”

“That is one way of putting it. Like you, if more permanently, he decided he could not tolerate the world as it is, and while I can respect your grief for his loss, if not quite for him, I do not share it. But I have left the effigy, while making one addition you should see. Please do so now. You will find me in the tea-house when you are done.”

He received a puzzled look but his father went, and Taren walked round to the tea-house, finding the service waiting as he had asked. The ceremony was not as dear to him as to Kel, but besides admiring the aesthetics he liked the calm it demanded and created, and after praying at the simple shrine to the Great Goddess he had had installed, with the Gallan’s exquisite image of her aspect as mother, he found he … needed was too strong, but very much appreciated such calming. Lianne liked it too, and Shinko of course approved greatly. Kel had been wryly amused by his choice of the most traditional Yamani form, and last Midwinter had given him an exquisite tea-set, perfections of shape in the subtlest monochrome glazes, and a boiling vessel with its own heating-spell worked in. He triggered it and settled himself to wait for his father, pondering what had and had not been said, and answering questions from Blue about both. There was also the complex state of affairs at Freebridge, formerly Genlith, but now at the petition of its inhabitants a free town, like Bearsford, though the King had insisted that Stone Mountain have an overriding authority in matters of justice and administration until it could be seen to be functioning properly. Things were shaking down well enough, but Genlith’s long neglect and Turomot’s severe examination had left a to-do list that did not seem ever to shrink, however he tackled it, and once the wedding festivities were over he and Lianne had plans to do some cheerful but implacable descending, cajoling, and (where one or two particular irritants were concerned) flat-out intimidating.

Lord Burchard was longer than he’d expected, and showed no emotion as Taren invited him to sit on the cushion, made tea, poured, and offered him a cup before sitting himself.

“Peace be with you.”

A faint frown showed. “Is there a ritual answer?”

“And with you. I don’t expect you to follow it, Father. It is only that I thought we could do with some calm. Do you have any questions about the shrine to the Great Goddess?”

There was a pause, but Taren credited his father with actually thinking about his answer.

“Not as to its purpose. You are telling me I was wrong about all women, not only Countess Keladry.”

“In some measure, yes. But that shrine is foremost a place of prayer that my forebears, and even Joren, find release from their hatred of, and contempt for, women, and so an end to any punishment on that account.” Taren sipped tea, enjoying the subtle flavour and his father’s surprise. “However I felt about Joren living, I bear the guilt of desiring and welcoming a brother’s death, and have worked hard to set aside my hatred and contempt for all he did and was. To forgive him, and myself.”

His father’s hands moved ambivalently. “One cannot pursue the dead.”

 “Actually, Father, that depends. At Hléodréam I saw Kel pursue the late King Maggur, his necromancer, and Stenmun Kinslayer even in the Peaceful Realm, and by Lord Dabeyoun’s word knew them compelled to hear and heed her as she undid all their works. But I quite lack her standing with the Black God, and in any case Joren, however halt, was as much a victim as a perpetrator — your victim, and Uncle Henchard’s.” Taren held his father’s eyes until he reluctantly nodded. “In so far as it is a rebuke to you, the shrine is not only about women, but about Joren. It … qualifies that effigy, let’s say, answering pride and disdain with love and care.” His father’s gaze dropped. “It was Kel’s idea, as an alternative to destroying the effigy or just bricking the whole place up. And you are also aware, I believe, that the custodial rather than capital sentences at the treason trial were her doing.”

“Yes. Cavall wrote to me about that. I … was not surprised, once I had thought about it. I said before that she was … generous to me, although I … did not deserve it. Gracious, even.”

“Yes, she is both generous and gracious, and she was heartsick of killing. I tell you these things because she too has forgiven Joren, as I have, and Sam and Var. But you, I think, have not.”

There was a long silence, in which Taren refreshed their cups, before his father spoke.

“You are correct. I find I cannot. I … gave him _everything_ …”

“You did, yes, the bad as well as the good, and he gave only horror in return. But while you and Uncle Henchard did not mean to do so, in setting him against Kel you set him against the Lord of the Chamber, the gods, and the Timeway. Do you ever wonder if he has forgiven you?”

“Yes.” There was a great deal of pain in his father’s voice, but he was not flinching from it. “I take leave to doubt it.”

“As I do. But that is the Black God’s problem, and should be left to him. Your problem is forgiving him, and yourself. And I think your inability to do either is the last bastion of your pride.”

There was another silence, Lord Burchard closing his eyes before suddenly nodding.

“You see me clearly. It blinded me, and yet I cling to it even now. What else is left me?”

Taren bit down on his temper, and spoke as gently as he could. “What else, Father? Life, breath, health, and strength. Three living children, and a wife. Two strong arms. Which is really why I have forced this conversation today, because you have never offered me any answer to Lord Mithros’s stated preference for action over words. I value your work with the hounds, so I have let it ride, but I cannot say the High One will do so.” His father stared. “I cannot aver that he will manifest, or that if he does he will have any interest in you, but as he spoke of you when we last talked I would suggest you expect the question.”

“Surely there will not be time for such … personal matters?”

“That will depend on whether he stays to dine. I do not count on it, but the invitation was given, through Lord Diamondflame, and places will be set at the High Table.” Impatience bubbled, and Taren stood. “It comes down to this, Father, that you told me to heed Kel because she walked with the gods, and it is my gratitude for that one true counsel, and her grace, that has allowed me to forgive you. I have learned to walk with the gods myself, in her shadow and in some measure on my own account. And assuming some do manifest tomorrow, the last thing I can offer you, as your son and as Lord of Stone Mountain, is the chance to begin to learn to do so yourself. But I think you will face a paradox, because before the gods, once proper respect has been given, you need to stand tall and look them in the eye, and for that you will need all your pride to give you the courage — yet that pride is also what you must let go. Think on it. I will expect you for wine before dinner, at the seventh bell, but I must leave you now to prepare to greet Their Majesties.”

As Taren walked away he spoke briefly to the servant waiting to clear the tea-service, directing that his father not be disturbed until the sixth bell. Whether it would do any good he didn’t know, but he had tried, in all honour and what love he could summon, and not having been asked he had _not_ told his father what the _kanji_ hung around the tea-house meant, nor that a wry Kel, more amused that he had actually done it than by the words themselves, had told him Lord Sakuyo had laughingly approved. He wondered what divine jest there might be tomorrow, and found he was genuinely looking forward to finding out.

 

* * * * *

 

To welcome so many cheerful guests to Stone Mountain was a pleasure, and to welcome Their Majesties as imminent parents-in-law a mildly terrifying privilege, the King’s hard stare keeping his greeting of Lianne to a fierce handclasp and a murmur of encouragement while the Crown Couple smiled sympathetically. Princes Liam and Jasson had been left deputing in Corus, but Roald would support him as a groomsman, with Sam, while Princess Vania was joining Var as a bridesmaid amid many jokes about their chiming names. To welcome Piers and Ilane was also wonderful, and they were much fussed over by his mother and aunt, to whom they had been more than kind in Corus ; but to welcome Kel and Dom to his fief at last was something more, for Sam and Var as much as for him, and to know her embrace as heartfelt as his own a calming grace. She eased him to arm’s length, a question in her eyes.

“All well, Taren?”

“As may be, Kel.” She had known what he had set himself to do today, and he shrugged. “I said what I felt I had to. The rest is up to him.”

“And Lord Mithros.”

“Indeed.” Taren grinned. “Though I have been wondering what Lord Sakuyo might also have to say.”

“Hush.” Kel shook her head. “His Nibs was in a good mood last time I saw him, in spring, but there’s no point offering hostages to fortune.”

He nodded, and she introduced her striking Yamani niece, Lady Akemi noh Akaneru, now a Guild apprentice at New Hope, moving on to Sam and Var, while he and Blue greeted Dom, Tobe, and Irnai before looking up at the patient immensity of Lord Jadewing.

“Be welcome, my lord, on your return to Stone Mountain.”

_It is good to see you again, Taren of Stone Mountain. You continue to do much of interest._

“Thank you, my lord. I try.” He looked down again. “And welcome to you also, Journeydragons Lady Skysong and Lady Icefall.”

_Hello, Taren. You have grown. And hello to you, darking Blue._

_Hello, Taren, and Blue, and thank you for inviting me. It has been an interesting trip, and we have learned much already._

Taren waited for Blue to squeak return greetings.

“Male mortals of my age tend to fill out somewhat, Lady Skysong, and you are welcome, Lady Icefall. I am glad it has been a good journey for you, and honoured you would make it. But forgive me, I must greet my other guests.”

And greet them he did — Daine and Numair, Alanna and Baron George, Lords Wyldon, Imrah, and Dagal, His Grace of Wellam, Archdivine Holloran, Sir Neal and Lady Yukimi, Sir Owen and Lady Margarry, Lord Raoul and Lady Buri of Goldenlake, Svein, Olimiaju, Geraint and other friends, fellow-councillors, nobles, commoners, and immortals, with several ambassadors (including a _very_ deferential Gallan) thrown in either to acknowledge Stone Mountain’s importance or in sheer curiosity. A part of him wondered happily at the ever-increasing breadth of his acquaintance and the still unexpected gifts of friendship, while another part noted those councillors and nobles who were despite everything surprised at his genuine pleasure in the company of the Weavers, with local Protector’s Maids, the couples whose mule-stud he had bankrolled, a number of veterans, and others he had helped to help themselves. There was also an engulfing hug from Ragnar Ragnarsson, grinning very widely and speaking Scanran fast enough to make Taren glad he’d been punctilious in practicing with Sam and Var.

“Jorvik is very sorry he couldn’t come, but someone has to mind Hamrkeng, so I am sent to represent the Council as well as Somalkt. He sends warm regards and good wishes to you and Princess Lianne, and renews his invitation to visit Scanra properly, which I second.” Thick eyebrows waggled. “We hardly recognise ourselves these days, we are so very civilised and peaceful. In Hamrkeng we even remembered to put in the plumbing and sewers _before_ we paved the streets.”

Taren grinned, having gleaned from spellmirror conversations with Kel and Dom both the deep suspicions there had been in some Scanran quarters when she began voluntarily tithing from the mine at Pakkai Corner, and the quite incidental but chastening and very widespread effects of her timely warning about the imminent gods’ and dragons’ great Chaos hunt, which had by all accounts been something to see, and then run away from as fast as possible. It had also _worked_ , recovering what Kel said Lord Diamondflame had called a deep pool of Chaos-taint, and leaving Scanra distinctly less fractious.

“Maybe, Ragnar, when all this is over, assuming the fief stays quiet. I’d like to travel more than I’ve been able to these last few years, and though I shall have to see how Lianne feels about it a northern trip would delight Var, who’s desperate to see the completed side-channels on the Vassa as well as this Vassa–Drell link Kel’s been talking about.”

“The side-channels are amazing, and worth a trip in themselves, but the other!” Ragnar shook his head. “Vanget haMinch told me he pointed out to Kel that there is a _mountain_ in the way, and she asked what difference that made? He says his head is still spinning.”

“He’s exaggerating, Ragnar, as you know perfectly well.” Kel joined them, with young Lalasa, reclaimed from a maid, on her hip and peering interestedly around. “It’s only a hill, not a mountain, height makes no odds to a tunnel anyway, and it’ll pull lots of Gallan trade onto the Vassa. Vanget just enjoys pretending to be shocked.” She dropped back into Tortallan. “Taren, I was sent by Var to say that your mother’s anxious to get people inside and settled.”

He didn’t roll his eyes, but Kel grinned all the same.

“She would be. There’s nothing scheduled until drinks before dinner, but if I may I’ll collect you and Dom a quarter-mark earlier — there’s something you should see. You too, actually, Ragnar.”

“There is?”

Kel gave him a suspicious look and he showed her empty hands.

“Nothing bad, I promise.”

His mother was fretting without real reason, but understandably enough, and there was no harm in keeping things moving, so after speaking to her and Aunt Lily he chivvied gently, and a swarm of servants saw guests to their rooms to freshen up and politely made sure they knew when and where they should reassemble before dinner. Steward Thalric had long adjusted to Taren’s preference for relative informality, and actually rather approved, but with Master Oakbridge’s aid was very happy to bring a certain stateliness to such a distinguished and royal occasion, and Taren left them to it. With Lord Jadewing to take care of any lack of room, immortals were also invited to eat in the great hall, but in general those visiting were being looked after by resident basilisks, ogres, and stormwings, with a large area of the walled gardens set aside, and Taren checked all was well there, and that they too knew when and where to be next, before going to bathe and change.

His personal habits remained more austere than not, but with Mrs Weaver’s skills to draw on he had found a pleasure in excellent though not ostentatious clothing, and had fine new outfits both for tonight and tomorrow. The King had decided, mildly apologetically, that the wedding was insufficient occasion to raise his rank so soon after his accession to the Council, but had — at, Taren strongly suspected, Queen Thayet’s instigation — dusted off some very old heraldic protocol and decreed that the Stone Mountain sigil worn in the direct line should in future have a golden royal border. His tunic for the morning had it, as (he had been told) did Lianne’s wedding-dress, but the one for this evening didn’t, though there was room for it to be added, Mrs Weaver not caring for garments that became unwearable after a single use. Drawing it on he let his valet fuss with buttons and make sure no speck of dust marred his person, before letting Blue leap back to his shoulder and going to collect Sam and Var, then Kel and Dom, with an intrigued Tobe, Irnai, and Lady Akemi, as well as a waiting Ragnar, hair and beard splendidly braided. Taren offered compliments that were returned on Mrs Weaver’s finest and Lady Akemi’s beautiful _kimono_ , and led the way down the main staircase.

“So what is it I need to see, Taren? People saying that always makes my back itch.”

“Do people say it often, then?”

Kel looked at him with renewed suspicions. “Often enough. Last time it was Lord Eiji, using the spellmirror relay to show me yet another shrine they’d found at Edo with me as well as Lord Sakuyo on it. He thought I’d appreciate it. At least I was kneeling, but honestly.”

“I thought Lord Sakuyo told you he didn’t mind?”

“He did, and he doesn’t. I do.”

“It’s not as though you hear the prayers though, love.” Dom patted Kel’s arm consolingly. “And it’s very good for the pilgrim trade.”

“Except they shouldn’t be coming to see _me_ in the first place.”

Tobe, on Kel’s other side, grinned at him. “Ma just thinks she ought to be grumpy about it. You should have heard her when Eiji asked if he could send some erring _kamunushi_ to learn better.”

“Dropping me into Yaman to fix it was bad enough, Tobe. Dropping Yamanis into New Hope for the same reason is outside of enough.”

Taren had considerable sympathy for that view, and suspected Lady Akemi shared it, but they had reached the doors of the Great Hall, thrown back by the guards, and he paused, meeting Kel’s gaze.

“Well, it’s nothing as bad as that, Kel, but it is an image of you, or rather, all of you, save Lady Akemi. You’re not being heroic, though — just happy, which Stone Mountain needs.”

Not waiting for a reply he led them all in, turning to gesture. The tapestry hung on the end-wall above the daïs for the high table, a full thirty feet by twenty, and it was finer than Taren had ever dared to hope, a source of true pleasure whenever he saw it. Mage-lights set in the ceiling illuminated the rich colours and revealed the fullness and balance of the composition, but what made it exceptional were the visible faces, in which the life and joy so evident in the original sketch had been truly captured. Not for the first time Taren was also aware of a faint sense of silver surrounding Lord Weiryn and the Green Lady, gleaming on the nap of his antlers and the flow of her dress, and extending to Wuodan and Frige as well as making a shimmer around Kel and Dom, gazing at one another with adoration. Their Majesties and Piers and Ilane were just as fine, clearly delighted beyond measure with the proceedings, and immortals had also come out exceptionally well, basilisks’ hides having a pearly sheen, Lord Diamondflame’s scales a blueness as much felt as seen, and the steel of stormwings’ feathers the flickering hues of reflection. Tobe and Irnai were also clearly recognisable, as were Neal and Lady Yukimi, and Ragnar, hair glinting in sunlight. There was a long silence that Taren eventually broke himself, speaking to Kel and Dom though all listened.

“You’ve seen the sketch at the townhouse, and I commissioned the Weavers’ Guild before I first came to New Hope. It’s taken a while, but I think it has had some blessings — Lord Sakuyo, I imagine, given his concern with art. The Weavers’ Guild will be presenting a smaller copy to you when you’re back home, and Tomas tells me it’s just as good. He also has a miniature for Mrs Weaver, but he hasn’t said anything about that one, at least to me.”

The gaze Kel turned on him was as intent as he’d ever felt from her, potent and amazed.

“But why, Taren? It should be you and Lianne up there, remaking your fief, not Dom and me.”

“Without you, Kel, nothing. Stone Mountain will know and remember what it owes.” He waved a hand. “Yes, it pokes the past in the eye, and there’s the political effect on some guests, but those are neither here nor there, however I’m looking forward to one or two reactions. The lessons that matter to me are that if you can survive walking with the gods, you can find happiness, and your mutual joy. The examples of marriage Sam, Var, and I had were _vile_ — disdain and infidelity, domination and abuse. Power used to the full, without the least integrity or love or even simple care to check it. It is from you and Dom, and your parents, that we all learned what a marriage could and should be, and the tapestry will every day remind Lianne and me, and our children if we are blessed with them, of what we should strive for. So perhaps it is a shrine of sorts, after all, but to promote respect and a striving to follow, not worship.”

Clearly moved, Kel briefly rested a hand on his shoulder.

“I’m honoured, Taren. A bit baffled too, mind.” Her smile was wry. “There seem to be far too many pictures of me about, one way and another, but I can’t say I don’t like this one. And it has Dom as well, which is a great improvement.”

“Hardly.” Dom grinned. “But it is our honour, Taren. I warn you, though, that Neal will wave his hands a lot at the idea of being immortalised at Stone Mountain.”

“He’s welcome.”

Dom and Ragnar laughed, and the latter thumped Taren’s shoulder.

“It is magnificent, Taren — the best tapestry I have ever seen. We do good rugs in Scanra, but nothing like this.”

“Taren is right that it has been blessed.” Irnai turned to him, her smile slightly fey. “Shakith says she likes it.”

“She does? Please give her my respects.”

“I like it, too.” Tobe was still studying the image. “It’s good to see you just being happy, Ma. You should try it more often.”

“Should I, Tobe? I am happy, you know.”

“Yes, but you worry too much.”

“Comes with the job, I’m afraid. Ask Taren.”

“True enough, Kel, but Tobe’s not wrong. And my only problem just now is that everyone will be assembling in a few minutes, so I must head to the reception room.”

He and Sam left them to contemplation, Kel saying something Yamani to a wide-eyed Lady Akemi and Var staying as host and guide, and found his mother and Aunt Lily, dressed to the nines, surveying the immaculate room with an air of faint anxiety while servants hovered.

“Is all well, dears? I _think_ we have everything properly ready.”

“I’m sure we do, Mama. You and Aunt Lily have been wonderful, but do please remember to enjoy yourselves as well. It’s all meant to be a celebration, not an ordeal.”

“We’ll try, dear.” His mother offered a far stronger smile than she could have managed four years ago. “Keladry didn’t mind the tapestry?”

“Not at all. Dom was pleased too, and the others.” A noise at the door alerted him, and the steward announced Nond and Imrah. “My lords, be welcome. A drink?”

After that guests came in a rush, with locals he had invited, and if there were some cries of alarm when Lord Jadewing let himself in, the ancient stone of the doorway stretching alarmingly, there was also a lot of high good humour. Even among the nobles many had never been to Stone Mountain before, and there was a good deal of friendly curiosity, directed at Sam and Var as much as at him and Blue, while those who had seen it in his father’s day were pleasantly surprised by the visible changes to the landscape and a very different atmosphere, as well as décor. Though her father would take her in to dinner, Lianne circulated with him, and there was a pleasing sense not simply of working in tandem but of truly beginning to forge a mutual identity. He was able to murmur some salient facts about those of Stone Mountain seeking to ingratiate themselves, or just overly proud of his new connection, and she was with him when he encountered his father again, as austere as promised but keeping his word about being polite. They had nothing left to say to one another — though that might change tomorrow, Taren fancied — and after the slightly awkward greetings with Lianne, Taren steered him to Lord Wyldon and Sir Owen, always happy to talk dogs.

When they all went through to dinner there was a moment when Lord Burchard, escorting his wife and sister-in-law with a careful respect that mattered greatly to both women, stopped dead, looking around the far brighter and more welcoming space and staring at the tapestry, before giving Taren a single deep nod that acknowledged much. Most of the guests were too busy staring themselves to notice, even the immortals, and Neal was indeed waving his arms, but as Taren led Their Majesties to their places the King spoke quietly.

“Congratulations on dealing with your father, Taren, in such an odd situation. Have you had any problems?”

“Not really, sire. None that are new, at any rate, though _he_ may have one of those tomorrow. It depends who turns up.”

“Ah. That is _so_ not my business, I devoutly hope. And that tapestry is a very clever touch, as well as marvellous work.”

“Thank you. For me it speaks to the joy my father has always lacked, and to union, but I confess that when I ordered it I was still busy breaking with the past.”

“Huh. Well, you have surely done that, in considerable style. Like your memorials, come to think of it.” A very royal smile crossed Jonathan’s face. “And though as Lianne’s father I dare say I shall go right on glaring at you, please don’t doubt that kingly me is happy with this marriage. It’s going to be very good for Tortall.”

Taren digested that approval with a growing pleasure while immortals settled in groups in the additional space surrounding Lord Jadewing at the far end of the hall, low perches were provided for Queen Thalia and her flock, and food began to be served. It could not of course match New Hope’s, but it was very good even so, and there was plenty of it. Courses came and went, with appropriate wines, and though Taren drank sparingly he later found he needed Blue’s help to make his memories of the evening more than a mosaic — a solemn discussion with Duke Turomot, frailer but as upright as ever, about the judicial use of stormwings ; Thayet hooting laughter at a scurrilous tale of Alanna’s about an inept elopement at Olau ; Var all but interrogating Ragnar about the side-channels on the Vassa and the complexities of water-flow between up- and down-basins ; a rippling silence around Kel when she cheerfully told a boggling Archdivine Holloran that it was indeed true she had now led the Wild Hunt several times, at Wuodan’s and Frige’s invitation, mostly to chastise men who thought drunken might made right, irritating the Green Lady, partly to feed stormwings, and partly to give the hounds some much-needed exercise, Lord Weiryn approving all three aims ; Lord Jadewing gravely praising the remarkable accuracy with which Lord Diamondflame’s back and scales were shown in the tapestry ; and, heartstoppingly overheard amid the crossflow of conversation, his father informing Lord Wyldon that he had no regrets about abdicating, found solitude far more pleasant than society, and believed Taren to be doing a better job than he had ever managed. Kel heard that too and gave him a concerned look, but he found himself neither elated nor resentful, only pleased in an oddly distant way that his father had managed to move beyond contempt, if not yet pride.

With the last desserts removed and many cheese-boards circulating, he rose to thank everyone for coming and, conscious of Kel’s and Dom’s feastday-eve practice, remind them all of the schedule for tomorrow.

“Breakfast will be available from an hour after dawn, and Her Royal Higness and I will be receiving gifts in the morning, from the second bell. The ceremony of dedication will begin at noon, and for those of you who have yet to see it the new temple is about a mile from the town gate. Unless something horrible happens to the weather we shall be walking there and back, leaving here one mark before noon, but Lord Jadewing has graciously offered to shorten the way for those who might find the walk taxing. Do please take advantage if you need to.”

_Indeed. It is no problem for me, and I am happy to help any in need._

“Thank you, my lord.” Draconic mindspeech was so very bracing. “Archdivine Holloran will conduct the dedication, while Her Royal Highness and I, with Lord Saman and Lady Varia, make the offerings.” He gave a smile Lianne later told him was quite unnerving. “Thereafter timing is necessarily contingent, but the marriage ceremony will follow as soon as may be, with the Countess-Protector officiating, of her grace and by our joint request.” There was much surprised murmuring that he ignored. “And once we have returned here everyone is at leisure, with refreshments available, until dinner at the sixth bell, here in the hall, which will then be cleared for dancing. I hope we have anticipated all needs, but should anyone wish for anything please do not hesitate to ask any liveried servant. For tonight, refreshment tables are set up in the reception room and gardens.”

He had debated with Lianne what else needed saying, and took a deep breath, very conscious of the tapestry on the wall behind him.

“Beyond these practicalities, there are some formal and heartfelt thanks I would offer while I have the chance, and two toasts I would propose. Inheriting young and under unusual circumstances, I have depended on my siblings, Lord Saman and Lady Varia, and on my mother and aunt, and I thank them all for their love and strengths. But I have also received extremely generous support from people who had no kin obligation yet went far out of their ways to help me, and six especially — His Grace of Wellam, a clear and unflinching voice in a time of bewildering pressure ; Commander Svein of Hannalof, who deputised wisely and well that I might travel when I needed to ; Their Graces of Mindelan, who have taught me more and more kindly than I can say ; and Countess Keladry and Count Domitan of New Hope, whose gifts and graces I cannot begin to express. So I would ask you to join me first in a toast acknowledging their blessings on Stone Mountain.”

He named them all again, bowing, and guests rose to drink their healths and long lives, Taren watching his father do so with another kick of anticipation. Setting his glass down, he deliberately shifted register, the informality causing another ripple of surprise.

“As most of you will know, Kel is allergic to praise, but I am for once going to risk it, because there is one thing that Lianne and I agree needs to be said this night. Three years ago, the late and entirely unlamented lord of Aussonne inflicted his idiocies upon Lianne, and us all, and were it not for the political and military miracle that Kel pulled out of thin air at no notice, the ceremony tomorrow, if it were happening at all, would be a very different event. Many beings vitally contributed to that miracle, and Lianne and I have privately thanked Lords Rainbow Windheart and Diamondflame, with other dragons, Var’istaan and other basilisks, and Numair. But it was Kel who had trained and co-ordinated immortal and mortal magics and military skill, and Kel alone who saw what might be done, as it was Kel alone who _could_ have done it. As Wuodan, of the Wild Hunt, remarked at the time, distance and a wall were in Kel’s way, so she arranged for dragons to remove one and basilisks the other ; and as Lord Mithros remarked while observing, she conducted the fastest siege in history, in twenty-three minutes, less than one percent of the previous mark.”

Kel was glowering at him amid a profound silence, and he returned a sweet smile.

“Not much more, Kel, but if you will save people and nations from war, we will be properly thankful, knowing ourselves greatly blessed to live in the Time of the Protector.” The glower intensified, but Lady Skysong looked approving, the King was grinning, and on Their Majesties’ other side Lianne rose. “So Lianne and I now ask our families, our family as it will become tomorrow, to rise to honour and thank Countess Keladry of New Hope and Mindelan, Clanchief Hléoburh, Protector of the Small, twice-over Tortall’s saviour, and ours.”

Taren felt another odd flicker of anticipation as his father rose without hesitation, matching his mother and aunt, Sam and Var, Their Majesties, and Their assorted Royal Highnesses. He had wondered if the King would feel compelled to add his own noblesworth, but really, he had said everything that was needed, and raised his glass, waiting for them all to do so and feeling the awareness of what it meant for _her_ to be honoured in this hall, no voice dissenting.

“Kin by blood and marriage, I give you Countess Keladry!”

If the loud and prolonged cheer that followed did nothing to soothe Kel, it pleased Taren, Sam, and Var immensely.

 

* * * * *

 

The weather stayed fair, with blue skies and a playful breeze to take the edge off the August heat. One of the many ways in which Stone Mountain now followed New Hope’s disciplines was in weapons training, so Taren and Lianne had been up at dawn, finding Kel had more or less forgiven them for embarrassing her. She was as graceful as ever with her glaive, sparring with Thayet, Shinkokami, Lady Akemi, and her mother after pattern-dancing, and over breakfast offered Captain Horgan and Vesker both praise for and thoughtful comments on the routines and benefits of cross-training.

The matter of wedding-gifts had been oddly thorny. There was little if anything that he or Lianne actually needed, and he had been tempted to ask people to make a charitable donation in lieu, but his mother had been mildly scandalised at the idea, while Lianne thought it would do people good to have to rack their brains, and that the results might be interesting, if not useful. He wasn’t entirely sure that covered some items — there was a remarkably ugly set of silver candlesticks from Nond, and jewellery he doubted Lianne would ever wear from several sources — but there were fine linens and crocks, blankets and rugs, cases of wine, glassware, and the like that were assured of good homes, as well as a variety of books, and a few gifts that were more than useful. The pair of young hounds Lord Wyldon presented, on his own behalf and Sir Owen’s, did not have mindspeech but carried the blood of the Wild Hunt and had eyes sharp with intelligence, while the yearling colt Lord Imrah presented had the classic lines and Pangare Bay colouring of the Yamani emperor’s stud. Kel’s and Dom’s thoughts had also turned to Yaman, the _naginata_ and _shukusen_ (matching Var’s) that they presented to Lianne taking her breath away with their purity of balance, but with thanks given Kel looked at Taren with a complicated expression.

“I have mixed feelings about this one, Taren, and you’ll see why, but Dom insisted you’d appreciate it almost as much as he does.”

Dom gave her a look. “And understand it, love. If you recall the tale, Tar, Your Royal Highness, on _that_ night in Yaman there was a moment when Kel spoke of the justice demanded on Kit’s behalf by her elders, and Lord Fujiwara scornfully demanded that they appear — just as they did so, in numbers.”

Taren nodded. “Blue, Silk, and Petal have shown us what happened. You laughed, Kel, at … the severity of the irony, I suppose.”

“Something like that, Taren. Fujiwara was so very blind in what he found it convenient to disbelieve. Presuming on dragons capped it all, and handed me a perfect cue.” She shrugged. “It made His Nibs laugh too.”

Taren nodded again, unsure where this was going. “I would imagine so, Kel. Not just mortal irony, then?”

“Maybe, maybe not. I’d suspect the Timeway before the gods on this one.”

It was Dom’s turn to shrug as he opened a small but heavy-looking box on his knee and removed some inner padding. “That’s beyond me, Tar, but what I saw was Lord Fujiwara justly drawn into Lord Sakuyo’s fatal jest, just as witlessly as Lord Hidetaki, and what I heard was Kel laughing with the gods, and almost as terribly. Lord Sakuyo said as much in Edo, and for all Kel demurred and he admitted he was exaggerating a bit he must have meant it because he and Lord Gainel between them inspired a Yamani carver of soapstones. This is an icelight copy, Tar, Your Royal Highness, because nothing would get me to part with the original, but Numair and Var’istaan between them worked out how to make an exact replica, and it has the same impact. I also think it’s right you have it, and the more so having seen that tapestry — you can call it another image of Kel for your collection. Or maybe your tea-house.”

Taren blinked, trying to follow the thought, but felt his heart stutter as Dom handed him the box and he saw what was within. The irregular lump looked like red-veined soapstone, not icelight, the dense colouring making it opaque, but it must have been exposed to light recently, for it glowed softly ; and in the stone, face somehow as marvellously alive as in the tapestry, Kel laughed a terrible laugh that knew mortal foolishness and offence, and a justice painfully beyond irony. Her voice came softly.

“The carver also dreamed its name, which is _The Burden_.”

He turned the word in his mind as his hand sought Lianne’s, and nodded.

“Yes — both refrain and a weight to make us bow.” Things clicked in his mind, and he looked up at Kel. “Was that the first time you understood that gods laugh for the same reason dragons dance?”

Her smile was dazzling. “Not the first, Taren, but the clearest to date. More Yamanis than Tortallans get it — there’s a Sakuyan proverb that advises one to laugh before one dies — but understanding the principle isn’t the same as feeling it in divine action. Your call, but Dom’s right it goes with the _kanji_ in that tea-house, which say the same thing.”

“Ah.” Lianne’s hand tightened on his. “Thank you, Keladry. I was … concerned when I first saw those and Tar told me what they meant, but _that_ makes sense. And yesterday Lord Burchard sat there, and from Tar’s account failed even to notice the _kanji_ , never mind asking what they meant. Gods! Does it get any easier?”

“Not really, Lianne, but one grows … used to it, maybe. And the gods and the Timeway serve it up in, I don’t know, different flavours. Joren was more a matter of the Timeway, I think, though the Goddess was growing very weary of such men, and the elemental was involved too. Even so, he was a ruined child, and however lost himself an example of what the Timeway no longer wished to accept. But when grace is offered, as it was at Aussonne and Hléodréam, that is always the gods alone, as far as I can tell.” Kel sighed. “The real problem is those who _will_ not see, regardless. Tar, Sam, and Var all think that even in death Joren will have remained … unrelenting, unreconciling, prouder than sorry to have died for his beliefs, and never even remotely accepting of how false and skewed they were. And I don’t disagree — the dead aren’t very good at changing their minds, though they can learn, if they will. The living, though … well, I’ll say only that Lord Burchard does _not_ have any of Joren’s excuses, and I agree with Tar that today he may find his continuing failure pointed out to him in terms even he cannot ignore.”

Taren and Lianne both nodded, hands still entwined.

“Odds on, Kel.” Taren looked at the stone face transfigured by laughter and light. “But let’s try laughing before we scream, eh?”

“Surely.” Kel grinned. “And there is one other thing, for which we’ll need to find a quiet half-mark later on, because I have some more darkings who are ready for different lessons. One is for you, Lianne, if you will accept the charge.”

“Oh. Gladly, Keladry, but Papa will be _very_ put out.”

Kel grinned. “Not to fret — I have one for him that Daine and I have specially trained in what we called royal ethics, and others for Thayet, Roald and Shinko, Liam, Jasson, and Vania. Daichi- _shushou_ , Reiko, and Taikyuu as well, and perhaps Emperor Kaddar and Empress Kalasin, though we’ll have to talk about that one.” Kel sighed a little. “The ban was so they couldn’t be abused as spies, but they’re much more mature now as a kind, and it no longer makes sense. Thanks to Tar and Blue, with others, they know quite a lot about noble rule, and the gods know they’ve heard enough of my views about royal necessity. Time to add the perspective from the other side of the fence.”

Taren took that under mild advisement, thinking that Kel had a fairly regnal view herself when she wanted it, but realised she was also defusing a potential problem by ensuring that Lianne was not made to feel excluded by the bonds between Blue, Petal, and Silk. Lianne saw it too, and their thanks were warm, but Kel only waved a hand.

“You’ll be good for them, as they will be for you. I just thought you could do without the distraction today, especially if you do have some extra guests.”

On Taren’s collar Blue stirred.

_Fun?_

“Probably. If you squint.”

 

❧

 

Quite how Kel, in a gorgeous red dress, persuaded His Grace of Wellam to join Nond, Archdivine Holloran, and other older guests in using the gateway Lord Jadewing provided Taren was never sure, but he was relieved and grateful. The whole route, within the town walls and beyond them, was lined with people, bunting, and flags, and if the evident celebration and good cheer was welcome it did all add to the strain, and the day’s building heat. He expected Lianne to use a gateway to spare her dress, but she had instead dispensed with a train, asking Mrs Weaver to cut the hem to conceal a pair of sturdy sandals, and walked beside him, on her father’s arm, trailed by Vania and Var in dresses that echoed hers. Roald and Sam were behind him, their tunics also through Mrs Weaver’s skills coordinated with his, its new golden border gleaming. Even without immortals the procession was several hundred yards long, but they made good time, even if some guests were left a little pink, and the exclamations as the temple dome and pillars became visible were very gratifying. Archdivine Holloran was waiting in the outer precinct to greet them, with a beaming Fordel and subdued Tover, and gave Taren a surprising bow.

“This is an exceptional design, my lord, and the statues are very fine.” The old man gave a warm smile. “There have been many dedications in the last three years, often welcoming Lord Sakuyo, but this is by far the most spectacular temple I have seen, and the first to include a shrine to the Graveyard Hag.”

There was a question in his voice, and Taren shrugged delicately.

“She is among those High Ones I have seen twice with my own eyes, Reverence, at Hléodréam, and I would not slight her for the world. Placing her and Dabeyoun with the Black God also means the two double niches are in balance.”

“Indeed. I noticed the animals — also beautifully carved. But I should not keep everyone waiting.”

Slowly they processed into the temple proper, and as the space filled the real excellence of Master Geraint’s and Var’s design became clear : the glass dome allowed bright sunlight to fall across the upper bands of rock while the open entry, sheer height, and cool depths of stone kept the temperature at ground level pleasant ; the curvature acted to focus all on niches and plinth, and even with the dedication yet to be done the sense of a sacred space, a little other to the world outside, was strong.

Protocol was another matter, but he and Lianne had both felt strongly she should participate in the dedication, and Kel had happily agreed they should devise whatever formal order suited them. Having seen the royal and Mindelan–New Hope parties to the sections reserved for them, they therefore stood together on the plinth, looking out at the assembling congregation : it had people finding seats as swiftly as they might, but they both had to take deep breaths, swallowing a desire to laugh, when Lord Jadewing paused just outside the entryway, long neck extending inside as he peered around appreciatively, causing several incoming stormwings to swerve. At last everyone was in and settled, Archdivine Holloran led the local divines forward to the plinth, Sam and Var joined them, and a silence threaded with anticipation fell.

Taren had asked the Archdivine to be as brisk as he could properly be, pointing out that High Ones should not be kept needlessly waiting, and Holloran had given him a sideways look before agreeing, but there were things to be said all the same. Even if the temples did not understand the mechanics, and were largely taking Kel’s word for it, they had agreed that the Timeway had indeed turned, and Tortall with it, entering a new time of greater peace and prosperity for which all must be thankful. It was also, plainly and wonderfully, a new time of architecture, and to find that used so cleverly to serve piety was a further cause of rejoicing, thanks being owed to Lady Varia, Master Geraint, and the Craftsbeings’ Guild. And while the mix of gods honoured here was unusual, Lord Taren’s criterion was unimpeachable, if a surprise to many ; the extensions of Lord Weiryn’s and the Green Lady’s sphere southwards, as of the Graveyard Hag’s northward, were welcome ; and the inclusions of Dabeyoun, Wuodan, and Frige set a most interesting precedent. If a degree of nervy anticipation threaded Holloran’s piety no-one remarked on it, and he soon turned, bowing to the shrines, and invited the libation-bearers to proceed.

Taren had done some hard thinking about what was right, and what necessary, and decided he had to be involved at every shrine but others might rotate. Lianne joined him for the first offering, at the shrine open to all gods, and after Holloran’s brief but properly inclusive words they went forward to pour out grain and wine — no great quantity of either, but the best quality he could command. The additional offering here had been a poser, until Fordel — who really was of far more use than Tover — had diffidently suggested a short poem he knew from a far southern childhood that asked for the blessing of any god who heard it. Taren had had a scroll done, and he and Lianne read it aloud together, enjoying the twining of their voices, before placing it in the niche. Chimes sounded, high and sweet, echoing from rock as silver rimmed the niche and symbol within, flaring slightly before settling to a steady glow.

“Ah.” Holloran contemplated the shrine for a second before bowing, turning, and raising his voice. “The gods hear us and extend their blessings. Once I would have told you all to kneel or fall flat, honouring the presence of the divine, but I have of late been taught better and instead ask you to stand, and to bow or curtsey as chimes sound to assure us of divine regard.”

No-one dissented, and there were some looks of strong approval as all stood, Their Graces of Wellam and Mindelan both nodding sharply, and Lord Burchard catching Taren’s eye as he stood, and offering a fractional bow to which he returned an inclination of his head. Then they crossed to Lord Gainel’s niche, Holloran spoke, and Sam joined him to pour grain, also placing the extra offering, a relief carving by the Gallan master of two stormwings bracketing a sleeping figure with a peaceful face. Chimes rang again as silver gleamed, tinging the statue’s eyes, and a breeze suddenly sweet with the scent of blossom whispered in the air.

Matters repeated with Lady Shakith’s niche, where Var joined him and the extra offering was (on Irnai’s advice) a hawk’s retrix petrified into jet-black obsidian so sharp it had to be handled very carefully, but this time the High One’s voice sounded, that distant hawk’s scream echoing in the space while silver pulsed ; and again for Lord Sakuyo’s, Var once more joining him to pour grain and, once he had poured wine, set down a beautiful small model of the _kanji_ -house she had designed, the lines of _sui_ gleaming. The chimes were achingly pure, and the booming laugh behind them no less resonant in heart and gut. As the echoes faded he saw Shinko step forward, her expression more joyful than not, and they waited for her to acknowledge the creation of many Sakuyan blesseds, promising that appropriate tokens would be sent — such a presence at Stone Mountain being another matter Taren had not quite imagined, but found he anticipated with some pleasure.

Then it was the turn of the Black God and Graveyard Hag, in the first of the double-width niches, and Holloran managed to sound genuinely appreciative of the presence of the Hag and her servants. The gifts had again been truly challenging, and Kel had for once not been of much help, telling him she had enough trouble thinking of things to give the Black God on her own behalf ; Taren had eventually, with Lianne’s agreement as well as Sam’s and Var’s, settled on the best drawing the Protector’s Maid in Corus could manage, from darking display, of Anna of Nicoline’s spirit casting Lord Biron’s at the feet of the High One. With grain and wine poured, Lianne laid that down, he added an eye-patch embroidered in silver with the outline of  _Le Pendu Pierreux_ for the Hag, and Sam placed two small and grinning skulls of carved bone for Dabeyoun and the rat. No-one had known whether Dabeyoun might speak under such circumstances, though the Hag did for Carthaki dedications, but behind the echoing chimes there was only that sharply remembered sough of the wind through trees and the underlying silence that burned in the ear. The silver that rimmed the shrine and statues, though, extended to Dabeyoun, and lingered in his eyes as much as in the gods’.

Somewhat oddly, to Taren’s mind, Holloran seemed more nervous of Lord Weiryn and the Green Lady, or perhaps of Wuodan and Frige, than of any of the others, and his words stressed a welcome in territory beyond their usual lands as well as the blessing of their daughter, but for Taren their shrine was the most straightforward. He had by now acquired several stormwing egg-blades, and with Queen Thalia’s ironic assent two had been mounted in hafts of the best steel Stone Mountain made, one that he set down to serve as a fletching-tool, and one Lianne placed that had a longer handle and was intended for kitchen uses. Wuodan and Frige, ever practical, had been a harder challenge, allowing that food, however it might be welcomed, really would not do, but he had discovered from Olimiaju that Master Earfiller, twitted by a basilisk about needless length, had produced a rebuking haiku in Old Ogric that might — perhaps — be rendered in Tortallan as _You quite lack the time / to grasp my simplicity, / swifter than all stone_ , and laid down a handsomely calligraphed copy with both the Old Ogric and Tortallan versions. Lord Weiryn and the Green Lady did not have voices as the great gods did, so he had expected only the chimes, but as their resonance faded two loud barks sounded, echoing from the rock. Holloran looked startled, but Taren only grinned at Lianne and urged the archdivine on to the last pair of shrines.

For the Great Goddess they all participated. Once Holloran had spoken, praising all aspects of the High One, Sam pouring the grain for him to wet with wine, Lianne setting down another wonderful Maid’s drawing, of Kel and Alanna grinning at one another, and Var a spiral finely worked in gold. Taren had wondered about alluding to Joren, but decided the smaller shrine took care of that and there was no need to recall him here. The chimes were a little louder, the flare of silver a little brighter as the moiling of hounds echoed from the rock, and when they moved on to Lord Mithros exaltation joined nerves and reverence in Holloran’s voice as he praised the god of war and justice. The final gifts were a balance wrought in gold, the hanging counterweights a perfectly matched pair of swords, and a dagger that Taren left sheathed : made at New Hope, from stormwing down it had taken Numair’s skills _and_ dragonfire to melt, the blade retained down’s properties and would cut anything, while hilt and sheath were of Stone Mountain’s best steel bound with leather. As he laid it down and began to step back the loudest chimes yet rang out and as that distant fury of battle filled the air silver flared dazzlingly all around the arc of shrines, forcing them all back with watering eyes. Beside him Holloran stumbled, and he lent the arm not shielding his eyes to support the old man until he could stand again, blinking away tears.

No god stood before Lord Gainel’s or the open niches, but the others were all present, and so were Wuodan, Frige, and Dabeyoun, tongue lolling. Holloran went to his knees, face transfigured as he gazed up at Lord Mithros, Tover and Fordel with him, and Taren heard the audience kneel too, but he, Lianne, Sam, and Var offered only the deepest bows and curtseys they could manage before facing the gods.

“High Ones, our fullest thanks for your blessings and the honour of your presences. Be welcome here and in our hearts, now and always.”

“And so we are, Taren of Stone Mountain.” Lord Mithros’s voice was mellow as he gazed around. “This is a pleasing temple, and your work with the Craftsbeings’ Guild to be commended, Varia of Stone Mountain.”

“Truly said, brother.” The Goddess also sounded cheerful, her hounds distant. “You have all done well.”

“Your gifts today are a cut above, also.” Lord Mithros held the down-knife, and was smiling. “This is a genuinely useful tool, well thought on.”

“Thank you, my lord, but as you must know the skill of its making was Master Numair’s and Lord Jadewing’s.”

“Indeed, but yours was the thought and the asking. And as not all of my brothers and sisters can stay for long, if you would have us witness your wedding you had best get on with it.”

Taren had imagined having to induce dispatch in others, not being chivvied himself, but Lord Sakuyo’s eyes were laughing, Wuodan gave him an equally amused look, and the Hag was now wearing the gifted eyepatch, silver outline catching the light. He took a deep breath.

“At once, High Ones. Do please all come to the plinth.” As he turned he used one hand to lift Holloran to his feet, his eyes seeking those whom he needed. “Time to make space, Reverence. You too, Tover. Fordel, the necklaces and brazier at once, please. Bridesmaid and Groomsman to the plinth, please, and all close kin acting as witnesses. Kel, you’re on.”

He was aware of gods climbing steps behind him but his eyes were on Kel as she rose, one eyebrow high but smiling, and spread her arms to gesture the royal and Stone Mountain parties forward. The King’s and Queen’s faces were austere, royal dignity prevailing, but Roald and Shinko, and Vania, showed more exaltation and nervousness, and his mother and aunt were clearly having to steel themselves. Kel went to them, speaking too softly for him to hear, and he saw them draw on her calm and resolution, faces relaxing as they moved, but his attention snapped back to Kel, extending a commanding hand to his father, who still knelt as if paralysed, face still but eyes wide with longing.

“Rise, Lord Burchard. Whatever comes of it, you will now support your son on his marriage, witnessing as a father should.”

It was an absolute command, brooking no demur, and his father rose, fear touching his face before it stilled again and he moved forward.

“Protector.”

It was spoken quietly with a slight bow as he passed Kel, but everyone heard and Taren’s stomach tightened as he fought the desire to examine expressions, turning to face Lianne and reaching for her hands in wordless reassurance that her own tight grip returned. They had to stand aside as new arrivals bowed or curtsied to High Ones, all remembering to include Wuodan, Frige, and Dabeyoun, Var supporting Vania as she did so, and Sam going to support their mother and aunt, both trembling until the Goddess, warmly smiling, praised their work in bringing healing to the fief’s women. His father climbed the steps ahead of Kel looking as if he went to his execution, but received only the same simple acknowledgement that all had. For Kel, though, divine attention sharpened, as she greeted each one individually ; Lord Sakuyo smiled warmly, as did Lord Weiryn and the Green Lady, and Taren suspected she once again saw beneath the Black God’s hood, as he did not. Complexity layered Lord Mithros’s voice.

“Protector. Your teaching spreads in all realms.”

“So I should hope, my lord. And I won’t dawdle but I do take the opportunity to thank you in person, and all involved, for acting to clear that Chaos-taint from Scanra. It has made a great and tangible difference.”

The High One nodded. “Yes. You were not wrong to chide my delay, Protector, though there were reasons. But I confess there was more taint than I had realised. Uusoae is ever extravagant. And it was another of your absurdly workable solutions.” He shook his head, though his voice was still warm. “Working with dragons and dogs, yet. The sunbirds were amused, also, which does not happen often.”

“Good to know, my lord, and my thanks to them too, as always, for their light at New Hope. And you will, I am sure, be happy to learn that Lady Skysong thought you were quite wonderfully useful.”

“Of course I will.” Complexities layered more deeply, irony twining around amusement and perhaps a faint rue. “Quite what _that_ one will be like when she is fully fledged I tremble to imagine. But do you your office now, and we shall stand witness for ourselves.”

“Of course, my lord.”

During the exchange Fordel had returned with marigold necklaces and brazier, and Taren, Sam, and Var had quietly marshalled people into order. Groomsmen and Bridesmaids stood immediately behind them, with families behind again, and the trio of priests by the brazier, pleasure suffusing Holloran’s and Fordel’s faces, and blank amazement Tover’s. That Kel had to turn her back on all the High Ones seemed to bother neither party in the least, and she gave him and Lianne a dazzling smile before briefly considering the mortal witnesses and the congregation.

“Beyond the great blessing of the High Ones’ presence in their new dwelling, this is a day of joyous celebration for many reasons. Tortall rejoices to see Stone Mountain renewed and restored to its rightful place, as the House of Conté rejoices in an alliance formally ending an old rift. The Craftsbeings’ Guild rejoices also, glad to serve piety and friends, state and people alike, and to celebrate fruits of co-operation between mortals and immortals. But it is first and foremost the joy and celebration of Lord Taren and Princess Lianne in turning abiding friendship and mutual solace into greater and more deeply loving union. Both enjoy the privileges of natal rank yet never forget or shirk its proper burdens, and both have too young endured and learned from cruel adversity with courage and grace, giving honour, granting toleration, and imposing chastisement where each was due, without fear or favour. Knowing one another’s hearts and minds, they choose now to go forward together. Does any being here know of any reason why they should not do so?”

In the brief, ritual pause Kel allowed, Taren appreciated what she had said, and said without saying, seeing the King’s and Queen’s slightly wry looks and wondering what expression his father’s face bore. Then Kel was calling on him and Lianne to make their vows, and for a while he was aware of little save the words to speak and hear, and Lianne’s gaze, holding his own with right happiness as well as kindling lust and proper trepidation, until Kel stood back to allow a smiling Lord Mithros and the Great Goddess to place marigold necklaces over their stooped heads. He saw no god gesture but wood in the brazier crackled alight, flames dancing merrily, and Lianne was in his arms, face turned up to give and receive kisses fierce with promise. Silver laced his spinning mind and senses, diffusing into a tingling strength and warmth he knew Lianne shared, and understanding they had been blessed by the High Ones they looked up, offering thanks and finding a great din of cheering about them. Kel’s voice was pitched to cut through it, and yet for them alone.

“Facing the congregation would be good, so the High Ones who need to leave can do so.”

Taren nodded, feeling quite dazed, and was turning when he realised Lianne had hesitated, looking at Lord Mithros.

“Will your brother of death be staying, my lord?”

A divine eyebrow quirked. “He will not, being ever needed elsewhere.”

“Then excuse me one moment, my lord.”

He didn’t need the tug on his hand to follow her, hearing silence fall as she stopped before the Black God and curtsied. He hastily offered a bow. To Taren the High One’s hood was empty of all but a darkness that held his gaze, and yet there was a faint sense of surprise, matched in the corner of one eye by Dabeyoun cocking his head. Lianne spoke for all to hear, yet only to the god.

“I am sorry to detain you, my lord, but while I can I would offer you in person my most heartfelt thanks for your great grace at Aussonne, to Anna of Nicoline, and to me. I understand it was the Protector you most truly graced, with true cause, yet without knowing Anna’s forgiveness of my failure of care I doubt I could have come to today’s joy, and I would acknowledge in full my debt.”

The darkness beneath the hood was unchanged, but a long-fingered hand rested for a second on Lianne’s head.

“Your thanks are heard and your debt discharged, Lianne of Conté and Stone Mountain. There must always be regret for a death untimely, yet Anna of Nicoline dwells in peace, and shares your rejoicing this day. Fare you well now.”

Silver flared and he was gone, a second flare telling Taren that Lady Shakith had followed, and a cautious glance that others remained. Swallowing, he led Lianne back to the centre of the plinth, to face the congregation and hear, in the thrum of renewed cheering, a new note, resonating in his belly, that he realised he had heard before, directed at Kel, but never at himself. After what felt like an age but was probably less than a minute, he leant towards Lianne, whispered, and tried raising his arms, palms out, finding himself gratified when they quieted. The gods should not be kept waiting, yet something was called for.

“Thank you, one and all, for the honour you do me and our new liegelady, Lianne of Conté and Stone Mountain. We will strive always to requite your trust.” Those cheers mattered too, and Lianne squeezed his hand, smiling at the packed crowd, but time pressed and he raised a hand again, enforcing silence before turning. “High Ones, will it please you to dine with us?”

“It will, Taren of Stone Mountain, honouring your bride and your own service.” Lord Mithros cocked his head. “There is also another shrine my sister, and my niece of death, would see, and a tea-house my brother of laughter wishes to admire.”

“Of course, my lord.” Taren looked left. “Lord Weiryn, my lady, is there aught you would wish save time with your family?”

Weiryn waved a hand, robes gleaming. “Only some speech with the priest who will keep these shrines, Taren of Stone Mountain. You extend our range and power, as the Protector has done, and we thank you for it.”

“It is my honour, my lord, my lady. Wuodan, Frige, there is meat as well as the best bones we could find, but is there aught else you would have? I would also ask for advice regarding some magnificent hounds we have been given.”

_Meat and bones are good, Taren, and we need nothing more with so many new scents to smell. Your haiku is also appreciated, however unexpected a gift of poetry. And those hounds are like to prove a pawful, so that is wise of you._

Taren nodded, thanking them, and turned again. “Dabeyoun, besides your own meat and bones, is there aught you would have? And I would thank you for your aid in finding a keeper for the shrine of the Black God’s miracle at New Hope.”

_No, thank you, Taren, and you are welcome. It was an interesting and sensible request. And like Wuodan and Frige I have new scents to smell._

“He’s happy enough, dearie, and I like my eye-patch. Your tea-room _kanji_ gave us a laugh too, so you’re in good odour all round. But do lead on.”

“Of course, my lady.” Once again Taren turned, intending to do just that, but behind the mask of his father’s face the man’s terrible longing caught at him, and he paused as a hundred thoughts smashed together — Lord Burchard’s austere assumptions of privacy and obdurate, blinding pride, a childhood filled with concealments, Var’s bruises and bleeding nose, Lord Mithros preferring action to words and the High One’s earlier, cool greeting, Wuodan’s and Kel’s ideas of simplicity, and the need to stand upright before gods, looking them in the eye. A decision crystallised, and he turned back. “But perhaps one thing first, while we yet stand on sacred ground and before the congregation. My lord of justice, you will recall we once spoke of my father and this day, so may I ask if you have anything to say to Burchard of Stone Mountain?”

Stars and silver stared at him for a long moment before Lord Mithros shrugged.

“Not that I can think of. But stand before us now, Burchard of Stone Mountain.”

Kel, face alight with appreciation, urged his father forward, throwing one glance his way, at once indignant, affronted, and anguished, before facing Lord Mithros, whose arms opened, palms upwards.

“Burchard of Stone Mountain, your prayers assail me daily, yet you know not what you want. And I have told you, through the son you so long ignored and yet must now defer to, that I prefer action to words. I am the god of war, and of justice.” Lord Mithros shot Kel a starry look. “And, I am told, of logical necessity clerks. Either way, I don’t _do_ hermits. So what am I to do with you?”

There was a long moment of silence, while Taren bit his cheek and saw Kel doing the same, before Lord Sakuyo drifted forward, laying a veined old hand on Lord Mithros’s arm.

“May I assist you in this, brother?”

The glance between the gods crackled with energy before Lord Mithros again shrugged.

“Why not, brother, if you think he’ll listen to you better than he has to me.”

“Surely he will try, brother.” Lord Sakuyo drifted forward again, a hand resting on his father’s shoulder. “Will you not, Burchard of Stone Mountain? I realise I am a horrible foreign god, but it really doesn’t do to ignore divine commands for that sort of reason, now does it? And I believe my favourite daughter is owed some fuller apologies than you have yet managed, so although she will not bless me for it I command you to make a proper pilgrimage, first to see the marvellous memorials your son has designed in Corus and at Mindelan, and then on the Pilgrims’ Way to New Hope. Go on foot, of course, as pilgrims should, and see what is to be seen there, and at Dragonstown, and at the shrine to my brother of death, and at Hléodréam, and when you pray to me at my shrine at New Hope having done those things, we will speak of what you can and may do to make fuller amends and live your remaining days both in honour and being of some earthly use.” The old face looked up, eyes twinkling. “Lead on, Taren of Stone Mountain, and I’ll keep explaining things to your father while we walk.”

Taren met Lianne’s eyes, and they each took a deep breath, swallowing laughter that if released would career out of control.

“At once, my lord.” He turned one more time, finding the king’s eyes on him, and remembering what he had been told of protocol dropped his voice to a murmur. “It seems we must precede the High Ones, Jonathan. Might you take Lianne’s right arm, and offer my mother your right, while I offer Thayet my left and she offers my aunt her left? Dancing a long and most improper laugh must wait, alas, though we should think on what security the spectacle of my father’s pilgrimage will demand.”

Jonathan swallowed, and Taren could see both amusement and royal calculation in his eyes before he spoke to be heard.

“Of course, my lord councillor. And welcome to the family. Let us go as swiftly as may be. Gods make me hungry, I find.”

Taren could only agree, and taking Lianne’s arm, they went, High Ones, a grinning Kel and Dom, and all manner of mortal and immortal guests and liegers falling in behind them amid a great babble of rising wonder and bemused good cheer as Stone Mountain learned what it was to walk with the gods, and how one might rejoice in the great and painful gift of doing so.

 

Ω


End file.
